Cinderella Undercover
by Beth Einspanier
Summary: What if Ian Fleming of 007 fame rewrote a well-known fairy tale?  It might go a little something like this... [Chapter 11 now up!]
1. Cindy

Author's note: Okay, most of you probably know me for my Discworld and Sherlock Holmes fanfiction. This time around I'm sort of branching into another area of fiction – the fairy tale! Of course, I'm doing it my way... ::evil smile:: Enjoy!  
  
Disclaimer: Most of the characters and concepts are pretty much public domain, and I'm sure astute readers will be able to pick them out of the background with little trouble. However, I would like to thank Mr. Danny Elfman and his band Oingo Boingo for writing the song "Cinderella Undercover", which served as the primary launching point for this idea.  
  
*****  
  
NEWSFLASH: Charming Industries, currently the second-largest technology company in Shea City, took another financial hit today as more and more people are converting to what has been nicknamed Faerietech, the innovative blend of magic and human innovation that revolutionized almost every field of technology since it was introduced less than five years ago. Andrew Charming, the latest heir to what some have called the Charming dynasty, was not available for public comment, but his representatives tell us that Mr. Charming is not concerned by this apparent exodus.  
  
In other news, Mr. and Mrs. Ursus have decided to press charges against a blonde teenager who broke into their home last Thursday, destroying a chair used by their cub. The youth, whom police have identified as Goldilocks, was discovered sleeping in the cub's bed when the Ursus family returned from a walk. According to the distressed family, the intruder attempted to flee when she was discovered, but was intercepted and subdued by a friendly woodcutter...  
  
*****  
  
Cinderella, the fairy tale's over/ You should know, you got the scars to prove it/ And your skin isn't as soft as it used to/ But I don't care...  
("Cinderella Undercover", by Oingo Boingo)  
  
*****  
  
The custodian mopped her way steadily towards the bookshelves lining one wall of the office, leaving behind a snail-trail of treacherously slick marble. She was a reasonably attractive young woman in her mid-twenties, though she had taken great pains to make herself appear as nondescript as possible. Her dirty blonde hair (ordinarily a shade of shining gold that most women would die for... or dye for, as the case may be) was restrained by a number of hairpins and a decidedly unattractive kerchief, and her clunky shoes looked exactly like they did not possess crepe rubber soles to allow them and their wearer to move silently. Over one shoulder hung a swag bag that might have been used to stow cleaning potions for spot stains, though most marble floors nowadays had stain-proofing enchantments as part of the installation.  
  
She paused at one section of bookshelf, setting her mop back into the bucket that had followed her faithfully thus far on four little clawed feet. She ran a forefinger along the bookshelf until she reached the volume she sought (entitled "There and Back Again", just as her client had told her), which she pulled out until she heard a muffled *click*. She smiled as a square of the decorative paneling slid aside, revealing a metal lockbox, and her smile broadened when she saw that it was only steel. This mark obviously didn't get the bulletin that the Mithril Age had arrived fifteen years ago, bringing with it a whole line of magic locks and containers (the most irritating had efreeti in the keyholes in case of enterprising picklocks). She thrived on the old-fashioned and the hidebound; they were still around, those select few who believed that they were too good to go with the flow. She set the box on the desk and pulled out a few hairpins, revealing that they were actually various pieces in a set of lock picks, and set to work.  
  
While she worked at the tumblers, a well-dressed imp (in one of the latest line of Demani suits) appeared in a puff of brimstone behind her, clutching a vellum envelope in one tiny talon. He watched her for a few moments, hovering by her shoulder, while she deftly sprung the lock and returned the picks to her hair. She opened the lockbox, revealing a tarnished-looking golden goblet, encrusted in gems – just the sort of thing someone like her client would prize most. The imp cleared his throat. She jerked back in surprise and whirled to face him, stuffing the goblet away in her swag bag.  
  
"Are you..." he consulted the name on the envelope, "Cindy?"  
  
She narrowed her eyes. "Who wants to know?"  
  
"I've got a letter for you, from someone who is very interested in talking to you."  
  
"Yeah? Who would send *me* a letter by imp?" Imps were far more reliable (and expensive) than standard courier, and less likely to get sidetracked or eaten than message birds. Overall, if you could afford to send something by imp, then you generally dealt with things valuable enough to require an imp courier.  
  
"Not my business, not my problem," the imp replied tartly, "They just summon me to deliver the stuff. Are you gonna open it or not?"  
  
She snatched the envelope out of the imp's talon and tore it open. She read the letter:  
  
"Dear Madam:  
Your presence is kindly requested regarding a matter of national  
importance. It has come to our attention that your skills at  
infiltration and disguise may be of use to us. You will, of course,  
be generously compensated for your time and services. The imp knows  
the way."  
G."  
  
She scanned it twice more to make certain she hadn't overlooked something, and then looked up at the imp.  
  
"This is some kind of joke, right?" she asked.  
  
"No joke," the imp replied coolly, "My boss was very specific that it was emphatically not a joke. They want to hire your services."  
  
"Well, maybe I'm perfectly comfortable where I am."  
  
"Oh! Well. In that case I'm sure the FBI will be very interested in your fileERK!" In his complacence, he'd made the error of taking his eyes off her  
  
"I have a file?!" she demanded of the imp now snared in her fist.  
  
"Careful!" the imp hissed, "This suit wrinkles so easily!"  
  
"What file are you talking about?"  
  
"Haven't you wondered why you haven't been caught or arrested or anything?" the imp asked, "The police aren't as stupid as all that, you know. They're very interested in you, Cindy. I suggest you take them up on their offer."  
  
"Who's *they*?"  
  
"You'll just have to come and see. What could it hurt? Otherwise..." He wiggled his batlike ears and an alarm went off somewhere in the building.  
  
Cindy swore, flung the imp aside, and then turned and pointed at the bucket. "Spill!" she commanded, and the bucket obediently flipped over, dousing the floor with a slick of soapy water while she snatched up the mop. She crossed to the window, opened it, and was out onto the ledge by the time the first security officers started learning what happens when friction is suddenly not when you expect it to be.  
  
She padded along the ledge, sure-footed as a cat, until she reached the corner of the building. She looked over the precipice, and then held out the mop over thin air.  
  
"Avanti," she murmured, and released the mop. It stayed precisely where it was.  
  
The thing about flying broomsticks was that the trick was in the stick. Properly enchanted wood didn't care whether the nether end was bristling with twigs or draped with a mop head. The broom bit was just *traditional*. And as for all the amusing jokes about female witches riding on something so obviously Freudian – Cindy's position was that sometimes a phallic symbol was just a phallic symbol. No more, no less.  
  
She heard a grating sound behind her and half-turned, pausing only a moment in stripping off the dust-blue dress to reveal her streamlined racing leotard beneath. That was all the time it took her to find out that she hadn't managed to avoid alerting her mark's external security system: gargoyles. Three of them, in fact, stalking towards her in single file. So much for old-fashioned and hidebound, she thought dully as she flung the dress at the nearest one. It hit the stony guardian neatly in the face, and the brief time it took to clear its sight was just sufficient for Cindy to re-shoulder the swag and its precious cargo and mount the broomstick (regardless of the cleaning implement it currently resembled) and kick off.  
  
"Allegro!" she shouted, and pressed herself low to the stick as it accelerated away from the botched burglary. Now that she'd tripped the gargoyles, it would not be enough to simply get away and blend in. Not only could gargs fly amazingly well for animated stonework, but they were also tenacious, and they'd follow a target for hours without getting tired. Rumors abounded of a would-be bank robber getting nailed a week after he thought he'd gotten away clean. Supposedly, there was still a stain on the sidewalk outside a certain flophouse to commemorate his abrupt transformation into chunky salsa.  
  
What this meant for Cindy, of course, was a big fat headache, at least. She could outrun any of them, to be sure, and likely outmaneuver all of them even on a bad day. She headed lower, skimming buildings, then streetlights, and then sidewalk vendors and cars, parked and otherwise. Barreling this close to street level, this fast, was inadvisable at best. She couldn't let anything distract her from a trajectory that would have given most broom racers a coronary, dodging and weaving between the traffic until she started hearing the sounds of stone grating against steel. The gargs were closing in. Perfect.  
  
She accelerated and veered left down a narrow alley, cutting low in front of a semi with only a foot to spare between her trailing foot and the grille, making sure the driver didn't see her. What gargoyles lacked in aerial agility, they made up for in sheer momentum, Cindy thought as the lead gargoyle exploded against the driver's side door of the truck at roughly one hundred miles per hour. She couldn't afford to slow down just yet, though – there were still two gargoyles on her trail, and she'd have to assume they'd seen their buddy get graveled.  
  
She heard one of the gargs galloping down the alleyway after her, having eschewed flight for lack of wing room. A shadow soared overhead – the other gargoyle, probably too large to fit in the alley, but still a definite problem. She slowed briefly, just long enough to snag the lid from a trash can – one of the newer models, dent-proof to discourage the trolls – and then watched the circling figure overhead for her perfect moment.  
  
"Avanti!" she shouted, and the broomstick nosed up and started rocketing heavenward, with its passenger holding the trash can lid like a jousting knight who lost his lance rather far back. If she didn't time her maneuver just right, the *least* she could expect was a shattered arm, which would make any further riding an absolute bitch. Urban gargoyles were like as not made out of concrete rather than granite, but a direct impact was still one of the contenders for worst idea of the year, alongside mooning werewolves and teaching dragons about oral hygiene.  
  
She streaked out of the gap between rooftops, twitching the nose of the broom aside at the last possible instant. Even though her eyes were squeezed to slits against the wind, she still saw the gargoyle reach out its claws to grab at her an instant before the lid smashed the beast's face, sending a vicious jolt up her arm and forcing her aside into a gut- wrenching barrel-roll. The lid, a quantity of gravel, and one defaced gargoyle fell from the sky, but right now Cindy didn't have time to celebrate – she could only hope like hell that her shock-numbed fingers still remembered to hold onto the broomstick while she waited for up and down to sort themselves out again. She drifted to a stop an eternity later, and very nearly dry-heaved on a Volvo waiting at a red light fifty feet below. Never again, she promised, like she always did when a job went sour...  
  
She glanced down to check on her prize, hoping she hadn't lost it in all the turbulence; her heart caught in her throat but shortly started up again when she saw the cup hanging halfway out from under the flap, having only been saved by one of the settings in its base catching on the swag's cloth. She tucked the goblet away again, checked that the flap was still secured, and instinctively ducked an instant before the remaining gargoyle flew past, having regained the air during her tumble and now back on the warpath, its outstretched talon passing through a patch of air previously occupied by her head. She wheeled around and accelerated away as the gargoyle flew round in a wide circle for its next pass.  
  
Through a clearing in the forest of skyscrapers that made up most of downtown Shea City Cindy saw a train station – Wyvern Station, though few people knew how aptly it was named. All that the general populace knew about the chain of events leading up to that decision was that certain private contributors had ensured the choice of name as well as the air of mystery surrounding it. The truth of the matter was that a single, very private contributor had paid the railroad a sweet sum in uncut gems to ensure that the underground rail didn't mess with his lair. He said he didn't mind the rail noise, but the line owners were suspiciously reluctant to run any trains through that stretch during the middle of the day, all the same.  
  
It was along this very line that Cindy now aimed her broomstick, mindful of the evening train due to arrive in – she glanced up at the ornate clock tower that dominated the skyline – ten minutes. That left her five minutes, barely, to get into the tunnel and subsequently get the hell off the beaten track. The gargoyle behind her screeched, too close for comfort, and she ducked low to the broomstick. A lancing pain in her right shoulder told her she was a moment too slow to entirely escape the swipe. She felt the swag's strap part under the same slash, and she grabbed at it frantically, only barely managing to grip the tattered end. It was just enough, and she pulled the bag up so she could grip the strap in her teeth while she squeezed the wrapped goblet between her thighs. This was a perilous way to ride – a broomstick did not naturally come with safety restrains of any sort, meaning you held on with your knees and steered with your hands. Holding the goblet this way meant she couldn't grip the broomstick as firmly as she would have liked to, but under the circumstances it would have to do.  
  
She heard the distant echo of a train whistle as she plunged into the tunnel – the 5:20, coming north as she hurtled south. Three minutes.  
  
The damned gargoyle was still hot on her tail – has it been mentioned that they were persistent? – and the rumbling of the train was getting louder. Any moment, it would come around a bend in the tunnel and... No. It was best not to think about that right now. Just keep thinking *allegro* and keep whispering it to the broomstick, which was already nearly maxed out in speed and starting to glow dangerously. She was distantly aware that she was losing the feeling in her right hand – she supposed that the gash was deeper than she'd thought. She'd think about that later – if she had a later.  
  
She slung around a bend, sparks starting to leap from the nether end of the broomstick, and immediately saw two things – the rough-hewn side tunnel she sought, and the headlamp of the oncoming train. She tried to imagine the look on the conductor's face, seeing this girl on an overheating flying mop coming out of nowhere five feet in front of the train, only to vanish again down the side tunnel that everybody knew was forbidden to any and all individuals smaller than an SUV, and an instant later seeing a gargoyle try less successfully to avoid impact. She heard and felt a jarring crunch, however, as the front of the train clipped the rear of the broomstick, breaking it against the edge of the tunnel and throwing Cindy to the stone floor of the cavern, her legs still reflexively clamped around her precious delivery and the wind knocked right out of her lungs.  
  
As the world swam around her and she fought to catch her breath she heard, above the rumbling of the train, a second rumble that her dazed brain quickly identified as breath moving in and out of huge lungs. She opened her eyes and looked up at the dragon – or more specifically at the business end of the dragon's snout. One long tooth poked out from between its scaly lips, and she knew for a fact that there were lots more where that came from. The huge mouth opened.  
  
"Did you get it?" the dragon asked in a voice like a kettle drum. She reached down, retrieved the slightly abused parcel from between her thighs, and placed it in the dexterous paw he held out for it. The head withdrew on the end of a long, muscular neck (it always reminded her more of a swan than anything reptilian, but she didn't wish to find out if it was rude to say so, in case it was) to study the parcel as the dragon unwrapped it as delicately as if it contained porcelain. He studied the goblet she'd retrieved, sniffed it, and finally nodded with satisfaction.  
  
"This will do," he said, "I trust you had little enough trouble, then?"  
  
She had managed by this time to get to her knees, clutching her bleeding shoulder and choking with so many possible terminal responses that she elected, wisely, to remain silent.  
  
"Good," the dragon said, as if she'd answered him, and placed a small bag on the floor between them. "Your payment, as agreed." She looked at the bag – which like as not contained gems or gold coins or something else that was universally negotiable – knowing that now was a very bad time to ask for additional compensation for her trouble. You never renegotiate when you're in the dragon's lair, they say. The dragon withdrew into the shadows with the goblet as the last few cars of the train passed by.  
  
As the last echoes died away, she picked up the bag – which had seemed puny next to the dragon's paw but was actually about the size of a small tote – and turned to see that damned imp studying a tiny clipboard, checking things off.  
  
"You again?" Cindy asked tiredly. The imp looked up politely.  
  
"Ah!" he said, "Are you ready to talk, then?"  
  
She leaned heavily against the lair wall. "Yes," she sighed in resignation, "Talk all you damn well please."  
  
"In that case," he said tartly, "Let's head back to the office. You'll want to get that shoulder looked at."  
  
Before she could reply he wiggled his ears, and they both vanished from the tunnel in a puff of smoke.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 1. 


	2. A League of Something or Other

NEWSFLASH: More plaintiffs have joined the criminal suit against B. B. Wolfe, originally filed by the lone survivor of three brothers from a rural family of Pigs for the wrongful deaths of his two brothers. The additional witnesses in People v. Wolfe have been identified as Miss Red Riding Hood and her grandmother, who allege that Wolfe stalked and sexually harassed Miss Hood over a period of time, eventually going so far as attempting to impersonate her grandmother when Miss Hood spurned his advances. Grandmother Hood was rescued from her ordeal when Miss Hood alerted a woodcutter to the subterfuge. Wolfe's lawyer has indicated his intent to present an insanity defense to all charges, citing a troubled past which led to violent porciphobia and acute gender confusion issues.  
  
Closer to home, Mr. Andrew Charming, CEO of Charming Industries, continues to assert that he expects his technology company to recover from the latest downturn of sales. According to industry rumors, Mr. Charming is planning to reveal his latest innovation on the twenty-sixth of this month, during the course of an invitation-only ball at the Charming mansion. As Mr. Charming is currently still at the top of Shea City's list of Most Eligible Bachelors despite his financial troubles, single women from all levels of society will likely be vying for the chance to join his very exclusive list of invitees...  
  
*****  
  
It took quite a bit of prodding before the imp gave Cindy any name to call him by. He insisted at first that not only was his real name unpronounceable by any tongue but he also didn't want to give her that kind of power over him. When she indicated that if he wouldn't give her any name, she would address him as Skippy and he would just have to be happy with it. He informed her that she could call him Alistair if his choice was between that and Skippy.  
  
Alistair delivered Cindy into the hands of a witch, who didn't look much older than her early teens but who could heal a six-inch gash just fine under the crystals and trinkets she wore. Cindy considered that the witch might have been one of the earlier Mithril Babies, the first humans in recent (and possibly all recorded) history to have been born with innate magical talent. Most humans who used magic could only do so via various items and artifacts; Mithril Babies generally referred to them, with a certain degree of disdain, as trinket jockeys.  
  
"It won't even leave a scar," said the witch (who introduced herself as Vasilisa, which reminded Cindy uncomfortably of petroleum jelly), "If you like I can get you a mirror so you can see."  
  
"I don't see why it's important," Cindy said, "I've had scars before. It's no big deal."  
  
Vas looked hurt. "Are you sure? I worked really hard to get it so you hardly notice anything happened..."  
  
"I'm sure you did a great job," Cindy said shortly, "but I've had a bit of a rough day and I just want to find out why some people want to talk to me."  
  
Vas perked up immediately. "Oh, you'll do fine. G's the nicest person you'll ever meet."  
  
Cindy looked at her askance. "You've met him, then?"  
  
"Well, I wouldn't call G a him. More of a her, actually. And I wouldn't say I've *met* her, but I've talked to her. She hired me to work for her. It's really an honor to, you know."  
  
"I'll take your word for it," Cindy sighed, "I don't suppose G is about to let a working girl have a hot shower before I meet her? I'm as filthy as a troll's ass."  
  
"I've seen trolls. A troll's ass is *much* filthier than—...Er, right through there." She dutifully withered under Cindy's glare.  
  
Through the indicated door, Cindy found less talkative company, but that was only because nobody thought it worthwhile to give dollservants the power of speech. This was Cindy's second major indication of G's wealth, after Alistair of course, for she had only seen the six-foot-tall faux- femme automatons in the very richest of the places she had cased in her career. She found them eerie, with their faces set in porcelain masks of content docility and their uncomplaining demeanor. She had conscientiously avoided these households, only partially because of the rumors that dollservants could be programmed to repel intruders through the nearest exit, even if that exit happened to be a third-floor window. Maybe if the current fashion wasn't a cross between Geisha and Goth, with large, bright black eyes, stark white "skin" and black painted features (including black- painted nails), they would look less unsettling.  
  
Three of these took charge of Cindy and (despite her protests and struggles) stripped her of her torn leotard and footwear, scrubbed her free of tunnel-grime and left her smelling faintly of lavender, combed out her tangled hair (one of them had no hands per se, only a comb and a brush at the end of her wrists), only to propel her into the waiting hands of two more of their artificial sisters, who started dressing her in fresh clothing. Cindy noticed with some unease that her new benefactor-to-be seemed to know what size she wore.  
  
"Wait!" she protested, "How...?" The dollservants paused, mutely blinking painted-glass eyes at her like baffled owls. "Somebody better do some explaining very soon." The dollservants exchanged a glance, but were absolutely no help. They appeared to be waiting for further orders. "Leave me alone," she said to them, and to her satisfaction the dollservants departed, walking in the jerky manner they had, like spastic runway models.  
  
She finished getting dressed, eschewing the frilly clothing the dollservants had tried to foist on her in favor of something rather more comfortable – a snug-fitting tee-shirt and jeans. The tee-shirt was another item of concern; it was black and proclaimed to the world in slightly deranged lettering that "My imaginary friend thinks you're weird." It was concerning because Cindy had precisely this tee-shirt in her closet at home. All right, she decided, enough games. She put on a pair of shoes that lay nearby and stormed through the door opposite the one by which she had come.  
  
She found herself in a large study that smelled largely of dust and paper. A table dominated the center of the room, bearing a small speaker, a pack of cigarettes and a stack of slender file folders. Already occupying the room were a Cat, wearing a pair of boots that laced clear up to the knee; and a fist-sized ball of sparkly greenish light loitering near the rustic- looking light fixture directly above the table.  
  
"Ffft," spat the Cat, "At least she cleans up well. Can't say much for her sense of fashion, though." In addition to the boots, the Cat wore something more often seen in the late 18th century, only in brilliant blue. His own tail undulated almost mischievously between the tails of his jacket, and he toyed absently with the small explosion of lace erupting from the front of his shirt. It has been said that Cats only wear what is fashionable and, technically speaking, this is roughly accurate. The truth of the matter is that what a Cat wears becomes fashionable just because a Cat is wearing it. In this case, the brilliance of the blue tended to overwhelm the fact that the Cat himself was a rather pedestrian shade of gray tabby, though he had managed to grow enough to a mane to tie it back in a short ponytail.  
  
"And who are you?" Cindy retorted, "The fashion police?"  
  
"My friends call me Puss. *You*, on the other hand, may call me McAllister – or if you find that too much of a mouthful, Mac will do. Yon ball of sparks by the chandelier is named Glitter." Glitter spiraled down from the light fixture (which was only a chandelier by the loosest definition of such) to inspect Cindy and, at close range, turned out to be a fairy about six inches tall and carried aloft by a set of moth wings. Mac continued: "I expect you were summoned here as we were by our conspicuously absent host, of whom all anyone seems to know is an enigmatic initial letter – am I correct?"  
  
"Right now I just want some answers – like who's important enough to not only send an imp courier but also make a talking Cat obey her summons?"  
  
"Well, after I caught and ate her *other* imp, she seemed to think I owed her something in return."  
  
Glitter made a squeak of disgust and cruised over near the table where, in an explosion of green sparks, she resolved into a rather larger form, about three feet in height and still delicately formed, but now Cindy could see that her astonishingly green eyes were rimmed with blue-green, as though she'd been up all night drinking and was now slightly hung over. Something in Glitter's posture, though, indicated something slightly more dangerous than a rough night. Fairies did not naturally come to the Material Plane with the mental filters that allowed mortals to think of crimes and tragedies in terms of sterile numbers, any more than the seelie could conceive of deliberately hurting another individual for one's own enjoyment. Most of the good fairies generally responded by attempting to get stupendously drunk, but Cindy had heard of fairies who had crossed over into the mortal world going insane or turning unseelie just to cope with the sort of things humans were capable of; she had never seen one so obviously on the brink. Few people had met up with an unseelie and lived to tell about it, though it was generally agreed that the unseelie were more or less sociopaths with powerful magic. Glitter snatched up the pack of cigarettes, tapped one out, and lit it with a small explosion of blue flame from her hand, puffing until she had it going.  
  
"Don't listen to him," Glitter advised, "Poor little Puss-puss jumped at the chance to earn a bit of cash after he got caught doing a bit of creative accounting at a company his human friend set up."  
  
Mac hissed at Glitter. "That was none of her business, you overblown firefly! Besides, he wanted to turn a profit, so I helped him turn a profit."  
  
"The profit was entirely on paper, fuzzball, with nothing to back it up. You're lucky he *only* fired you."  
  
"And I suppose burning drunks with cigarettes is a nobler calling?"  
  
"I simply find something inherently perverted about someone who would take advantage of someone my size when she's passed out in a back room. It's practically pedophilia. Anyway, I took a page from that human scientist Pavlov and started reconditioning them. Nothing messes up human horniness like the thought of their latest conquest taking a cigarette and burning them right on their—"  
  
"That will be quite enough of that, Glitter," said a voice from the speaker. It was an educated voice, Cindy thought, definitely the sort you could expect to be born into money. "Good evening, Cindy. I'm glad you could join us. I expect you're wondering why I've called you all here."  
  
"Actually, G," Cindy replied, "I'm just wondering why I'm talking to a speaker instead of a human being."  
  
The speaker chuckled. "A valid point, Cindy. I just wanted to give the three of you a chance to get acquainted before I broke in."  
  
A section of bookshelf opposite Mac swung in, and G entered. She was a well-weathered woman, the sort whose age one could only narrow down to between fifty and 235, with silver-white hair wound into a bun at the crown of her head, penetrating blue eyes, and a very slight point to her ears that betrayed fairy heritage somewhere in her family tree, though she was clearly not a true Fey. She was well-dressed, in a midnight blue dress that should have been ruined by the black-and-green striped socks and hobnailed boots she wore to compliment it but oddly wasn't.  
  
"Don't tell me," Cindy said, "You're a fairy godmother."  
  
"You would think so, wouldn't you?" G returned serenely, "As you have guessed by now, I am G, and I require all of you to do something for me that – incidentally – may well prevent a global catastrophe and the downfall of society as we know it. Each of you had a stake in this, of course – but first, a bit of background." She crossed to the table and retrieved the file folders, handing them out to her guests like a teacher handing out tests.  
  
"Hey," Cindy said when she saw the photograph that confronted her at the front of the folder, "This is that Andrew Charming guy. He's been all over the news for the past couple of weeks talking about some 'solution' his people have been working on to get his stock out of the crapper."  
  
"Yes," G said grimly, "And *my* people – namely Alistair and his ilk – have uncovered what that solution will be."  
  
Mac glanced up from his packet. "Okay...?"  
  
"Charming knows that he cannot compete against Faerietech using his own mundane technology, but he's invested his entire company into nonmagical resources and thus cannot afford to convert his company over to Faerietech. The Charmings have never admitted defeat, not in thirteen generations of corporate businessmen, and Andrew is not about to be the first. He has arranged for a device to be built that, if activated, will render Faerietech useless. Obviously the imps haven't been able to get close enough to see how it works, but according to the notes they stole the device will eliminate the primary source of magic on the Material Plane."  
  
Glitter's head snapped up from her file folder. "Do you mean to say that he plans to get rid of fairies?" she demanded, "All of them?"  
  
G nodded. "The device will either kill fairies instantly or send every last one of them back to Westernesse. Either way, their departure will set off a chain reaction that will affect everything magical, and not just Faerietech. Goblins, trolls, dragons, talking animals..."  
  
Mac's ears flattened, his tail puffing out, his lips curling back from his fangs.  
  
"... so you see that everyone has a stake in stopping him. This brings me to our next topic, namely the fourth member of your group." She reached into thin air and retrieved a scroll, which she handed to Cindy. "Give this scroll to the warden at Yagga Prison. It's a document granting parole to an individual whose talent with machinery you might find useful. I'll explain exactly what is required from each of you when you return with him."  
  
Cindy partially unrolled the scroll and read the first few lines, pausing when she got to the name of the individual in question. "Tornado Alley?" she asked in confusion, "Is that a person or a geographical region?"  
  
"I'm sure you'll be more than happy to look past his upbringing," G replied, "It's not his fault he was raised by a club of Hell's Angels. And, if you will accept a bit of advice?"  
  
"What's that?" Cindy asked.  
  
"Wear something nice. It probably won't impress Mr. Alley, but it will make a better impression on the Warden than your invisible friend's opinion of his weirdness."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 2. 


	3. Tornado Alley

NEWSFLASH: A number of sources have indicated that Andrew Charming's guest list is nearing completion, though his public relations people declined to say who exactly would be on it, indicating that Shea City had to wait until invitations start arriving in people's mailboxes in the next few weeks. As one might expect, speculation over who might be included in this exclusive soiree has been a major topic of discussion throughout the city, as it has been rumored that Charming will not limit himself to the upper crust of society. Nevertheless, there have been persistent rumors about this prince of the industry possibly courting the likes of such world-renowned beauties as Angelina Jolie, Charlize Theron, and Snow White.  
  
*****  
  
A well-dressed blonde woman walked into Yagga Prison, her shining golden hair wrapped tastefully into an impeccably tidy coif. She had an easy smile that belied the fact that, while the high-heeled pumps matched her suit perfectly and showed off her shapely calves below the hem of her skirt, they were absolutely killing her feet. When she reached the front desk, she leaned on it, simultaneously giving her feet a slight rest and offering the guard a chance for a tantalizing peek down her blouse.  
  
Cindy did not naturally gravitate towards well-tailored clothing, as a matter of personal taste. If given the option, she would much rather wear jeans and tee-shirt... but she recognized the benefits of wearing a flattering suit (when circumstances called for it), of a cut which was not overtly seductive but rather incidentally so. For one thing, it kept most eyes off her face, which made it a lot harder to identify her later if a job went down the crapper.  
  
"Hello," she said in a tone equally as calculated as the cut of her suit (somewhere between businesslike and after-hours), "I'm here to secure the release of a prisoner. Here's the paperwork – would you be a dear and take care of it for me?"  
  
It was, of course, precisely five minutes before shift change. The guard (whose name tag identified him as Jerome, but Cindy suspected he was a Jerry) was obviously tired – Cindy estimated he'd been having a rotten day that started the evening before – and he was looking forward to the end of his shift, at which time he might have a chance to shave and get some sleep, in some order. But before he could go, here was one last task to take care of; brought to his attention, admittedly, by a woman the likes of which he thought never came to pick up prisoners. He glanced at the scroll, read the name, and appeared to encounter a mental speed bump.  
  
"You want *him*?" Jerome asked in disbelief, "You *do* know that he's in here for pounding a man into the sidewalk, right?"  
  
She did. She read Alley's entire file while she loitered just around the corner, waiting for this magic moment before shift change. The deceased had made the fatal mistake of messing with the motorcycle of a lifelong Hell's Angel. In Cindy's opinion, it was natural selection at work.  
  
"Well, if he weren't convicted of something, he wouldn't be in here, now would he?" She smiled a radiant smile that had never failed her before and didn't appear close to breaking its record this time. He offered a weak, I- really-wanna-go-home-and-have-a-hot-dinner-just-as-soon-as-I-help-this-nice- woman smile. "As you can see here, he's been granted parole – so I'd like to see him as soon as possible, please."  
  
He shrugged. "Okay. You're gonna need the special visiting room, though." He picked up a handset. "Hey, Cliff? Yeah, it's me. Tornado has a visitor. Yeah. Oh, har har, real funny Cliff – no, I'm *not* bullshitting you. She's standing right here. How the hell am *I* supposed to know? They don't tell us anything around here. Just send him up, okay?" He put down the handset and offered Cindy a tired smile of friendly exasperation. "Can't believe Cliff. He wanted to know if you were Tornado's *girlfriend*, for God's sake."  
  
"Well, one has to kiss a lot of toads before one finds a handsome prince," Cindy said vaguely as she was shown to the "special" visiting room.  
  
The dossier of Tornado Alley was remarkably complete. He was abandoned as an infant, left on the doorstep of an establishment that, as chance would have it, was frequented by Hell's Angels. He was named Alley because that's where he was found, and Tornado after the favorite motorcycle of the Angel who ultimately adopted him, a man identified in the file only as Gangrene. His new family discovered that he had a distinct talent for mechanics (when he surgically disassembled one of the motorcycles and subsequently reassembled it after being yelled at by the owner of the bike – the bike ran better afterwards) and pitched in to make sure Alley went to a good college – MIT to be specific. The incident that landed him in Yagga took place during Alley's graduation party, when a woman started talking to Alley. As it turned out, she was the girlfriend of a member of a rival gang, so her current boyfriend picked a fight with Alley, who tossed him out of the bar through a plate glass window. In retaliation, the rival biker picked out Alley's ride and started kicking it... and that was all she wrote.  
  
As she reflected, she heard heavy footsteps approaching the visitors' room. Very heavy, in fact. Fee-fie-foe-fum heavy, accompanied by the lazy rattle of a lot of very thick chains. *Who is this guy, King Kong?* she thought to herself. The door opened, and a guard entered, leading Tornado Alley by a length of chain attached to a second length suspended between the heavy manacles that bound the prisoner's wrists and was in turn only one part of a network of shackles that ensured that the prisoner would not get very far if he made up his mind to do something stupid. She reflected later that her guess was very close.  
  
One detail that Cindy thus discovered had been conspicuously left out of the dossier was the fact that Tornado Alley was a seven-foot adult Minotaur.  
  
He had to sidestep to get his huge shoulders through the human-scaled doorway and finagle his horns into the room; it was a tight fit, but he appeared to have had some practice since he'd arrived eighteen months ago. His head and neck were draped in stringy black hair, of a similar texture, it seemed, to the shaggy hair which protruded from the cuffs of his prison jumpsuit (which almost had to have been custom-tailored, considering the scale of the wearer and the fact that he had a tail and hooves besides. Cindy had heard stories about Minotaurs, about the fact that they ate human flesh, preferring that of virginal women, that they lived in labyrinths, and – oh yes – that their berserk rages were the stuff of legends. This was a lot of mythology for one species to build up over fifteen years of existence, though Cindy suspected that a lot of it was left over from a tiny incident in the Mediterranean thousands of years ago involving some guy named Theseus. Except for the rages, of course. *Those* were a matter of public record.  
  
Tornado was guided up to the table at which Cindy sat, trying not to make any sudden movements, and the guard (Cliff, Cindy guessed) pulled over a chair for Tornado to sit in. When Tornado didn't immediately get the point, Cliff reached up and tugged meaningfully at a large steel ring set in the Minotaur's nose. Tornado's eyes watered slightly, and he sat, making for a very interesting study in biological geometry as his legs folded. He looked muzzily at Cindy with dull eyes.  
  
"What's wrong with him?" Cindy asked Cliff when she saw this last detail, which didn't quite mesh with the idea of the powerful Beast of legend and rumor. It was like seeing a drugged tiger.  
  
Cliff shrugged. "One of the terms of his agreement was that he got treatment for his violent tendencies. I'm sure you've hear how 'taurs can be."  
  
"First of all," Cindy said, "According to my file the victim vandalized Mr. Alley's motorcycle, which raises an interesting point in favor of a provocation defense. Second, he looks more drugged than rehabilitated. Whatever medication you have him on, whether it's Prozac or horse tranquilizer, it's clear to me that he doesn't need it, considering additionally that the incident in question was his first offense in his life."  
  
"Miss, are you his lawyer or something?" Cliff was starting to look a bit less cavalier about the situation.  
  
"I work for people who have Mr. Alley's best interests in mind. Obviously, he wouldn't have gotten into MIT if he was a complete psycho. So, kindly show a bit of respect for *das uber-geek*, hmm?"  
  
She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Tornado had apparently registered her presence, as well as the fact that she was trying to help him. One bovine ear now drooped slightly less than the other as he listened.  
  
"So, if you would be so *kind* as to bring me Mr. Alley's personal effects and whatever paperwork I need to sign, I would appreciate it massively. In the meantime, Jerry..." she added over her shoulder to Jerome, "I would like a few moments to consult with Mr. Alley. I know you must be looking forward to the end of your shift, and I'm very sorry for the trouble."  
  
Jerome's face twitched ambivalently in a way that hinted strongly that he was in fact more of a Jerry than a Jerome, and wanted to pursue further Jerry-ness with Cindy, but he headed back to his station. Cindy reflected that neither one had actually *asked* whether or not she was Tornado's lawyer, which was fortunate – she didn't have anything resembling a fake bar card, and *that* would have led to some unfortunate questions.  
  
She looked back at Tornado, who seemed to have gotten the clouds out of his head now that the uniforms were gone; at least his eyes were more focused, though his head still wove in a slightly stoned fashion, most likely for the sake of the security camera in the corner. One quality about Minotaurs that no-one ever seemed to catch was the reason for their ability to navigate complex labyrinths – they were, on the whole, unexpectedly intelligent. Not that many people asked.  
  
"Okay, listen up," Cindy said to him, and his ears twitched forward attentively, "I'm here because someone wants to talk to you. Someone important, but someone fairly reclusive, if you follow my meaning." He nodded slowly. "Good. Now, all I know about you is what I read in your file, which conspicuously omitted a few details – but if you can do what she seems to think you can do, I'm *hoping* that won't matter." She paused and regarded him. "They don't have you sedated at all, do they?" He shrugged his huge shoulders noncommittally, as if to say that if they tried he hadn't noticed. "Regardless, I just want to establish a few ground rules. First, if you're the sort who would eat human flesh, I'd recommend abstaining." He gave her a look as though she'd just advised a Buddhist monk not to kick a puppy; strike one urban legend. "Secondly, keep any rages to yourself while you're in friendly company. That includes, regrettably, an idiot Cat who's proclaimed himself fashion god of the known universe. You'll meet him soon enough. Third, I really wouldn't recommend teasing the fairy." He nodded, but moments later an ear twitched attentively; whatever clue he heard allowed him time to look very stoned by the time Cliff returned with a very large paper bag, like the sort department stores issued to people buying a new wardrobe.  
  
"Hey!" Cliff barked into Tornado's ear, "You awake there, cowboy?" Tornado raised his head to look at Cliff – Cindy noticed a glint of hatred in the Minotaur's eye, indicating that those two apparently had a short and brutal history. "He didn't give you any trouble, did he, miss? Guess not. You just better watch your back around him... you know how 'taurs can be."  
  
"I've heard the stories," Cindy replied, and then glanced at the bag Cliff had set on the floor. "I trust these are all of Mr. Alley's personal effects?"  
  
Cliff nodded, then handed Cindy a business card, on which was printed "Bella Callista, P.O." and a phone number. "He'll have to call his parole officer once a day, starting with the minute he gets settled in with whatever civilian life you got planned for him. *And* you'll have to arrange a weekly meeting between him and her. Don't look so glum, honey. I understand Bella has a natural talent with Alley's type."  
  
This was, strictly speaking, quite accurate. Bella Callista, known to those living under the legal radar as Beauty, had developed her own special way of dealing with the magical Beasts who had run afoul of the law, such as Minotaurs, Centaurs, Satyrs, and the occasional troll. Part of it was the fact that she didn't look like a cop – she was one of the favored few on whom the Mithril Age had bestowed flawless looks, which tended to soothe the savage Beast. However, she was a cop before she was Beauty, which meant that once she was assigned to your case, you were under a legal microscope. Cindy groaned inwardly. Beauty was going to make this entire operation very tricky; if she even suspected Tornado was going to be involved with a team dedicated to infiltration and (if necessary) sabotage, they were going to be short one machinery expert very quickly. Cindy pocketed the business card, resolving to deal with matters as they came.  
  
She reached into the bag of personal effects and pulled out a scuffed, black leather jacket, sized somewhere past XXL and into the "Oh my God, he's coming right at us" territory, adorned liberally with studs and chains. Emblazoned across the back was a large insignia of a robed specter astride a black, fire-breathing steed, against a background of eerie blue flames.  
  
"The Riders of the Apocalypse," Cliff interpreted the insignia, without enthusiasm, "I understand the local police have had their eye on that bunch for a while."  
  
"Any reason?" Cindy asked, as matter-of-factly as possible.  
  
"Nothing that'd hold up in court."  
  
After a bit more digging, Cindy came up with a toolbox containing approximately enough wrenches of various sizes and types to dismantle the Eiffel Tower given an afternoon and two friends, and a chrome keyring shaped like a winged skull, to which was attached a single key. Tornado couldn't even hide his expression of creative pride when he saw the keyring.  
  
"I expect his ride is still in impound, and in good condition?" Cindy said, raising her eyebrows at Mr. I Hate Minotaurs to indicate that there would be trouble if this were not the case.  
  
"Yeah, the monstrosity's still in the lot. Just take it with you when you go – it's a damned eyesore."  
  
Tornado's expression darkened dangerously, but Cindy put a hand on his wrist to forestall him doing anything stupid (*As if I could have restrained him!* she thought in amusement afterwards) and he visibly downgraded himself to DEFCON 4.  
  
The "monstrosity" was indeed still in the impound lot, as Cindy discovered after she got Tornado all signed out. It was, quite simply, a work of art, all chrome and black paint with stylized flames across the engine housing surrounding the name "Guinevere" in gothic purple letters, a leather seat long enough for one driver and two passengers or one Minotaur backside, and the sort of oversized handlebars that she had seen on the sort of choppers that she always thought looked like overcompensation for social inadequacies, but when she saw Tornado (now clad in his riding leathers) next to it, she realized that the decision was not one of aesthetics but practicality; he was simply too big to use regular-sized handlebars with any efficiency. He glanced from the motorcycle to Cindy, baring his teeth in a way that she found alarming only until she realized that he was smiling crookedly with pride, blunted only slightly by the scuffs and dents he had found along one of Guinevere's side, still left unrepaired after eighteen months.  
  
"You built this, huh?" she remarked, and he nodded, one huge hand stroking the leather seat. "Looks like you're the machine expert G's looking for after all. Tell you what – you'll probably want to work on that damage as soon as you get the chance. I thought so. I might be able to help you there... see that SUV over there? We can load Guinevere into the back of that – trust me, she'll fit, it's an SUV of Holding – and you and your toolkit can start working on her on the way to meet your new benefactor, okay?"  
  
He nodded, but then appeared to consider something. He motioned Cindy closer. She mentally shrugged, figuring that if he was thinking of doing anything he would have twenty strong guards on him in a heartbeat, and stepped closer. He leaned down until she smelled the stale prison food on his breath. She managed to only lean away slightly.  
  
"Thank... you," he croaked in her ear – the first words he had spoken to anyone since he'd been led into the visitor's room. To judge by the hoarseness of his voice, they were probably the first coherent noises he'd made to any human being in some time. His brief message delivered, Tornado turned back to his wounded Guinevere and set about walking the motorcycle out of impound. So much for rehabilitation, Cindy thought grimly.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 3. 


	4. Pride and Prejudices

NEWSFLASH: Shea City is practically holding its breath as the day of the ball draws closer. This station has heard rumors of a few people having received invitations already, but so far we have no hard evidence to confirm any of them, nor the names of any such individuals. Charming's people have declined to confirm or deny any rumors, saying only that those who need to know, will know soon enough.  
  
In other news, a local woodcutter mentioned by several witnesses as being on the scene of a number of incidents is being sought by police as a material witness to these crimes. Anyone with information as to the man's whereabouts is encouraged to contact the SCPD at the number on your screen...  
  
*****  
  
"As you all have guessed by now," G said to the motley group now assembled in the study. Alistair sat on her shoulder, eyeing Mac warily and twiddling his hooves. "This will not be a simple burglary or safecracking. It will be very dangerous, and very difficult – and although failure is certainly a possibility, it is not a pleasant option to consider." G gestured above the table, and a three-dimensional, semitransparent illusion appeared, a large-scale image of the Charming estate and surrounding grounds.  
  
"The other imps and I scouted around the place," Alistair said, flying over the image, "We found security points here, here, and here along the perimeter." As he pointed, little red skulls appeared on the map. "Nicodemus got un-summoned by a ward when he tried to phase through the front door – Bartimeus found out that the ward, covering the whole house, prevents any kind of magical entry or egress, including phase-shifting, teleporting, using a dimension door, or manipulating the doors or locks with telekinesis. We went in through a basement window that had been left unlocked by a careless housekeeper. Once inside the house we discovered a number of magical security systems here, here, here, here, hereherehereherehere—" More red skulls appeared in rapid-fire succession.  
  
"We get the *point*, Alistair," Cindy cut in impatiently.  
  
"The question, of course, is how do *we* get in?" Mac elaborated, combing his whiskers laconically with a paw.  
  
"The party is on the twenty-sixth," G replied, "There will be a lot of people there, most of them virtual strangers to Charming and his security."  
  
"Invitation only," Glitter reminded her, "Unless you can pull four invitations out of your ass – two of them for a tom-Cat and a Minotaur, no less. I doubt Charming really swings that way."  
  
"Even if he did," Mac growled acidly, "I don't. I can't speak for the 'taur, of course."  
  
"The way I see it," G interrupted, "You'll only need one invitation."  
  
"Oh?" Mac said," And who is going to be the privileged invitee?"  
  
G smiled and pointed. "The only one who's likely to be invited – with a bit of fixing up, of course."  
  
"Her?" Glitter raised her delicate eyebrows.  
  
"Me??" Cindy blurted, "Look, the sort of parties *I* go to serve Jell-o shots, not caviar."  
  
"Your job, Cindy," G explained as though Cindy hadn't said anything, "will be to make sure Charming remains in out of the way while the rest of the team does its job. I know you're skilled at social engineering – can you engineer by proxy?"  
  
"And *what*, pray tell, will I be engineering in Charming's direction to keep him thusly occupied? And Mac, if you don't stop snickering, I swear I'll neuter you with a caviar spoon when we get there."  
  
"No need to get all hissy about it, luv," Mac retorted, "It's starting to sound like we're going to be a small entourage of *your* groupies. I do not 'group' well."  
  
"Cindy will be your excuse, MacAllister, for even being there," G said sharply. "How you work it out is your choice, but the role must we played flawlessly. Charming doesn't believe in Faerietech, but he *does* believe in guns, very emphatically."  
  
"Slugs of cold iron, no less," Alistair added, "This guy really *despises* the Fey."  
  
"I would never have guessed," Glitter deadpanned, "Guys like him make girls like me necessary."  
  
"In any case—" G began, but then glanced at the one attendee who had been silent through the entire meeting, mainly because Tornado had been poring over a sheet of stolen designs with great interest, the twin braids of his bovine beard frequently brushing the page. He glanced up when he registered the attentive silence.  
  
"Hm? I'm sorry, I was just..."  
  
"Daydreaming," Mac sighed, "Probably thinking little happy motorcycle thoughts. I swear, I don't know why—"  
  
"I was *wondering*," Tornado corrected him, "Where you'd keep something like this anti-fairy device. It isn't exactly a conversation piece – at least, it wouldn't lead to the conversations an evil genius like Mr. Charming would want to get into."  
  
This was the most that Tornado had said at a stretch since the meeting started – or at all, really, since shortly after he and Cindy had returned from Yagga, at which time the dollservants had been set on him. They'd tidied him up with only one small incident, but he said he was sorry and would reattach the arm when he got the chance.  
  
"Goodness," Mac said, allowing a modicum of surprise to creep into his voice, "It talks. Maybe you would be so kind as to contribute a bit more to the meeting than the smell of freshly scrubbed buffalo?"  
  
Tornado frowned, but it was the sort of frown one saves for an anonymous idiot who cuts one off in traffic, and owing to the relative inflexibility of a Minotaur's face, it was mostly in the eyebrows anyway.  
  
"Come off it, Mac," Glitter said, "Not everything with fur has to be as talkative as you. You might enjoy a thoughtful pause or twelve."  
  
Mac didn't even look in Glitter's direction when he flipped her off, punctuating it with an expression of such tired disdain as only Cats and 17th-century French nobles can execute correctly.  
  
"My, aren't *we* a cohesive bunch?" Cindy asked the room at large, "Two of us can't even ask a third any questions without getting in a fight."  
  
"What *I* want to know," Glitter said, "is why we can't just smash the infernal thing with a tire iron when we find it. A broken machine can't work, broken circuits can't fire, and everyone goes home happy."  
  
"Because breaking it open would probably expose the core of anti-magic," Tornado replied offhandedly, his finger resting on a section of a diagram. He glanced up at Glitter. "Fairies are nearly pure magic, so if you're *lucky*, the radiation will just obliterate you."  
  
"How the hell is that lucky?" Glitter demanded, hovering in front of Tornado, "I wouldn't exactly put total annihilation at the top of my list of lucky events, I'll have you know."  
  
"Well, *un*lucky would be..." Tornado paused, thinking, "Imagine the sensation of every atom in your body accelerating away from each other at the speed of light."  
  
"You just described obliteration, genius."  
  
"Not quite... you wouldn't really feel obliteration for more than an instant or two."  
  
There was a thoughtful and slightly queasy pause.  
  
"Okay," Glitter announced, "No smashing the anti-magic core. Got it. What's next?"  
  
"Well, we didn't find any doomsday machines while we were looking," Alistair remarked, "And even lesser demons would know what one ought to look like. Nebuchadnezzar found a satellite dish on the roof, though, that must pick up stations all the way from Avalon. Needless to say, Nebby was a bit put out that we couldn't stay and look for elf porn stations on the telly. Had to drag him out by his tail, the randy git."  
  
"Well, there had to be something," Cindy said, "This isn't the sort of thing you can hide under the sofa. Were there any rooms you couldn't search for whatever reason?"  
  
Alistair looked as smug as one can with a face like a deranged Chihuahua. "Just the one... here." He pointed to a room on the third floor, at the east end of the main corridor, and a little yellow happy face appeared. "A guest bedroom doesn't need a magical combination lock, is all I'll say about it, especially if it's 'Under Renovation' like the sign said."  
  
"I think we have a winner," Mac observed as the happy face grew fangs and cackled demonically.  
  
"Of course," Glitter replied, "we have to *get* there first, unless you missed all the traps that Al pointed out."  
  
"Alistair, if you please," the imp corrected pertly. Mac swatted him distractedly with a flick of his paw, sending him tumbling horns over hooves.  
  
"Oh crap!" Tornado suddenly blurted, jumping to his hooves as he noted the time on the grandfather clock, "Parole meeting! I'm gonna be late!"  
  
"Calm yourself," G reassured him, "I've already taken care of that. Just remember what we talked about regarding your new maintenance job in the law firm and about looking harmless, and everything should be fine."  
  
"Wh—"  
  
She snapped her fingers. Tornado vanished from the study in mid-syllable.  
  
Moments later, the largest gray suit and tie in the history of corporate fashion teetered into the parole office as one Minotaur just barely made it to his meeting on time. Despite his best efforts to look harmless, it was clear by the way the receptionist fainted that nobody had warned her about Beauty's latest parolee.  
  
"Sorry," Tornado said meekly, tugging futilely at the shirt's starched collar, "I'm not late, am I?"  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 4. 


	5. Good Old Tornado

NEWSFLASH: The media buzz surrounding Andrew Charming's impending soiree barely three days from now is intense. So far, the reported guest list is over two hundred names long and growing, comprising many of the best-known faces of Hollywood and music. Noted actor Johnny Depp has been decidedly coy about whether or not he will respond to his invitation, saying only, 'I've spent most of my adult life starring in other people's fairy tales, and here's a guy who's actually making a real one for himself. That takes balls, you know?'"  
  
In other news, three members of a radical anti-polygamy group stormed the rural cottage inhabited by seven dwarvish miners and an unidentified young woman late last night, seriously injuring four of the dwarves before they were repelled. Of the injured, three required hospitalization and are under close observation in the Intensive Care Unit...  
  
*****  
  
It was ten in the morning, three days before what Mac had quickly dubbed "Operation Glass Slipper." Cindy entered the main workshop, wearing a bathrobe and carrying the last of her breakfast with her. G had by now extracted a modicum of cooperation from Glitter, and was showing the fairy what Cindy took at first to be mere fashion drawings, until she realized that they were designs for a ball gown – her ball gown. It was wispy and ethereal and white and strapless and above all completely opposite to anything she would ever wear. The bodice hugged the torso, the skirt flounced out from the hips, and generally Cindy was sure it would make her look like an idiot even if she didn't catch a petticoat underfoot and go tumbling. She did credit the drawing for trying hard to make it look flattering.  
  
Then there were the shoes – the elegant pumps probably not made of glass but something similarly sparkly and delicate-looking. These, of course, were completed already, and the only thing that made the remotely appealing was the fact that (as G was kind enough to point out) Faerietech circuits were embedded in the heels. When Cindy had peered at the heels to see them, she almost overlooked them – one of the appeals of Faerietech was that everything was based on crystals and the ethereal resonance properties of each (whatever that meant, Cindy had thought during the science lecture) and, being primarily made by very tiny and agile fairy hands, had a certain delicacy and innate beauty that was not found in more mundane, silicon circuitry. In this case, anyone who was close enough to notice the delicate tracery (which would have meant that the hypothetical view would be prone on the floor) would likely have taken it for some clever decoration inside the transparent heels. The 'tech, of course, was Glitter's work. Aside from that, they looked uncomfortable – they'd probably give her blisters or something.  
  
Mac was over by the far corner, crouched in front of a model of the same type of magical combination lock that Alistair had described in Charming's mansion. The trick with magical locks was in spoofing the resonance of the accepted key, Mac had said, which could sometimes be done with a plain audio synthesizer. The theory behind it was to get the crystals in the lock vibrating at the right frequency, and "open sesame". However, each lock had a different key frequency, which meant some trial and error in the field. And if he got it wrong—  
  
"Hey, Mac?"  
  
The crystals in the lock suddenly shone red, and the keyhole coughed up a cloud of harmless red dust in Mac's face.  
  
Well, let's just say that Charming wouldn't have harmless red dust in *his* lock.  
  
The Cat turned around in annoyance. "What the hell do you want?" he snapped, "I was just about there, and *you* had to—"  
  
"Have you seen Tornado anywhere?" The Minotaur had gotten permission from Beauty to visit his "family" the previous evening, though Cindy wasn't at all sure Beauty completely understood that Tornado's family was a biker club. When he'd returned, he'd said not a word to anyone, merely retreating to his room and holing up for the rest of the evening. Since he was studying the plans to the anti-fairy device, this was not entirely surprising.  
  
"I didn't see him at breakfast," Mac said shortly, "Nor have I seen any signs of his passage through the kitchen all morning. You know, I'd nearly spoofed it..."  
  
This *was* surprising. Tornado had an appetite well in proportion to his great size, and he usually ate a properly massive breakfast which seemed to last him until dinner. Whether or not he re-chewed it as a bovine cud later on throughout the day, Cindy preferred not to speculate, though she had noticed that he seemed to chew an awful lot of gum while he studied. But this morning, skipping breakfast...?  
  
"I'll just leave you to your work, then," she said to Mac as he brushed the last of the dust from his fur. Without waiting for a response (he licked his nose, a killing insult in Cat language, at her retreating back), she headed back down the hallway towards the sleeping quarters.  
  
A song by Evanescence filtered through the door as she knocked. "Tornado? Are you awake?" She reflected that his choice of music did not forecast a happy mood – Cindy herself generally saved the banshee-angst strains of Ev for the times when she was feeling particularly stormy with a chance of torrential depression.  
  
She was more concerned than really surprised when the Minotaur did not answer, and she wondered what exactly had happened during his family visit. Most humanists would have one believe that Minotaurs and various other Beasts were incapable of complex human emotions – and therefore were not really people. It was common knowledge, for example, that dragons were primarily motivated by greed, Satyrs by lust, and Minotaurs by the near- apocalyptic Rages that possessed them at times. Cindy, however, had seen the hollow look in Tornado's eyes when he'd returned from his errand.  
  
She knocked again. "Tornado?" she tried, "You okay?"  
  
There was movement within, during the silence between one track and the next. The door did not move.  
  
"I'm not leaving until you answer me," she told him, trying to sound like she meant it.  
  
"Go away," he said flatly, "I don't want to talk to anyone right now."  
  
"Look, Mac said you weren't at breakfast and I was worried about you."  
  
"Why?" he demanded bitterly, "Nobody else is."  
  
This rocked her back on her heels slightly. Whatever had happened last night must have been really severe – and just when Cindy and G had managed to restore the Minotaur's faith in humanity, which had been fragile at best at Yagga. There was only one thing to do for it, then.  
  
"I'm coming in," she announced, "And if you really don't want me to you're going to have to throw me out." As she turned the doorknob, there was a sound within like a very focused avalanche, the result of which was that the door stopped short after she'd pushed it open maybe three inches. One 'taur hoof would have done it, Cindy assessed absently as a thin slice of Tornado's face appeared in the gap. The eye thus presented for her inspection was red-rimmed and slightly swollen. Though it was strictly accurate that Minotaurs were physically incapable of weeping, it looked to Cindy as though this one had tried like hell to do exactly that.  
  
"Go away," he said, "Please, just go away. I don't want to be around anyone right now."  
  
She couldn't stop looking at that eye. A world of grief – deep-seated, almost primal grief – was reflected there.  
  
"Something awful happened, didn't it?" she assessed gently, "With the Riders, I mean."  
  
After a long pause, he nodded slowly and, deciding that she was not going to leave, he stepped away from the door, allowing her to enter. Tornado was not even dressed yet, clad only in a pair of white boxer shorts that she saw, absurdly, had a red kiss-mark somewhat to the left of the tail- hole. Coarse black hair – currently rather unkempt – covered his chest, shoulders, forearms, and lower legs. He was densely muscled – probably strong enough to bench-press a small car, Cindy thought detachedly – and a red tattoo on his left bicep in the shape of a government seal proclaimed him to be "100% USDA Prime Hunk". For his own reasons, he'd elected to keep the nose ring. For all that, Cindy had never seen anyone looking so vulnerable in her life. He reminded her of a very large kitten.  
  
"I didn't know," he said without preamble as she shut the door behind her, "I didn't know – couldn't possibly have known what had happened that night." He sat heavily on the scaled-up bed G had provided; with a bit of effort and a bit of a hop, Cindy sat next to him, her feet dangling. She'd always felt a certain kinship with the magical Beasts that she could not find among the humans, and she especially felt a certain level of affection for the Minotaur; though he'd seemed a bit scary at first, lately he'd been making a great effort to seem harmless, as though desperate not to squander the second chance that G had given him.  
  
"Torny, what happened?" she asked gently.  
  
"I got there around eight," he said, "I hadn't talked to any of the guys since I was arrested, and I *thought* they'd enjoy seeing me again. Good old Tornado, he'll get that weird pinging noise out of your engine, you'll see. Don't worry about a thing, our main man Tornado will get your bike running like it was new. Don't worry about him being a Minotaur, he's cool. But, when I walked in... they just looked at me. They just stood there looking at me like they'd found a rattlesnake in the closet and didn't know what to do with it.  
  
"'Hey guys,' I said, even though I could smell fear coming off them. They were afraid. Of me. Of Good old Tornado. I was still trying to figure it out when I heard someone cock a shotgun by my ear. I looked over and saw Anthrax – Gangrene's brother – standing there pointing Gangrene's shotgun at my head and looking like he'd shoot me in a heartbeat.  
  
"'You shouldn't be here," he said, 'Not after what you did to Gangrene.' That was when I noticed that I couldn't smell Gangrene anywhere, not a fresh scent. I was sure that I hadn't done anything to him – he was like my father, you know? – and I told him so." Tornado shivered, though it looked more like an overall twitching of the hide. "That was when he told me... I never remember what happens during my Rages... it's like a red haze. I think I'd Raged maybe twice before that night, and each time Gangrene was able to bring me out of it before anyone got seriously hurt, but this time..." He paused, visibly recoiling at the memory. "'You broke his effing back,' was how Anthrax put it, though he used a word I don't like to say. 'He tried to bring you out of it and you smacked him away like he was nothing and kept on beating on that guy. You threw him into a lamppost and broke his effing back like it was an effing twig, you effing stupid ox, and if you don't effing get out of here right effing now I'm going to blow your effing head off.' That was when I understood why nobody had come to visit me in prison – they were all scared of me. Of what good old Tornado had done to the closest thing he ever knew to a father." He fell silent, his head down.  
  
Cindy had until that moment thought that her sympathy had dried up and blown away the day her father died and left her as a virtual servant to her stepmother and stepsisters. When she'd gained her emancipation from those hags, she'd sworn that she wouldn't let herself get close to anyone. She'd make her own way in the world and make her own money, and other people be damned. She'd put up so many defenses to keep people out the front gate that Tornado had slipped quietly and unobtrusively through the back door.  
  
"I don't think I can do this," he said suddenly, "If I Rage during the operation... I don't want to kill any more people, and there'll be hundreds there. I'll be a liability. I'm dangerous."  
  
"I've met dangerous people," Cindy said, "Dangerous is being able to kill people without a second thought. Dangerous is simply not caring. You've been nothing but gentle since you got here, and if it comes down comes down to it, I don't think you'll be any more of a liability than... than Glitter."  
  
"That's not very reassuring," he said quietly.  
  
"Alright, she's a bad example," Cindy conceded, "But you're still an important part of the team. The Rage is only a part of who you are. Don't let it define you." He glanced at her uncertainly. "Right now you're probably the only one smart enough to figure out those plans before our deadline, for one." He looked away. She tried a different tack. "I'm sorry about what happened to Gangrene – and you found out about it in probably the worst way I can think of. If you want I can give you a few minutes to think it over, okay?"  
  
He was silent for about a minute.  
  
"If it's not too much to ask," he said finally in a quiet voice, "I could use a hug."  
  
She was happy to concede to his request. She put her arms around his thick neck, shedding silent tears of sympathy for a creature who had no tears to shed.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 5. 


	6. Mission Inadvisable

NEWSFLASH: It's now the day of the big Event at the Charming mansion, and Charming Inc. has finally released the list of guests, over 300 names long. Of all the names, which range from common to famous to infamous, one has caused new waves of speculation: Cinderella. Who is this mystery woman? Is she merely some celebrity's pseudonym, or is she a new lover that Charming has kept secret until now? Our sources have scoured Shea City for any such woman, and come up empty-handed. Charming has declined to comment on her true identity...  
  
*****  
  
"I'd ask you how you got the invitation," Cindy said, "But I'm sure it'd just be a waste of breath. Instead, I'm going to ask you why you got it under the name of Cinderella. That has to be the dumbest name I've ever heard of."  
  
It was 7:30. The team was inside a silver stretch limousine whose hubcaps still had "Matchbox" embossed in them, en route to the ball. The other cars sharing the road with them displayed a certain degree of deference to the limo – but then again nobody could really disagree at this point that letting Tornado drive had its definite bonuses.  
  
G smiled in her godmotherly fashion. "Hyperbole will gain you nothing, my dear. Certainly you've heard all the speculation over who you might be. Remember your role in this."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm supposed to distract Charming while Mac, Tornado, and Glitter work on disassembling the device – but this dress makes me look like the taffeta queen of Shea City."  
  
"Actually," Mac interjected, "It was meant to make you look like an arctic fox. By a curious twist of fortune, this is a masqued ball – which means that we nonhumans won't have as many difficulties as we'd thought."  
  
"I was wondering why you hadn't elected for something other than crushed velvet," Glitter remarked, "You look like a velour sofa I saw once."  
  
"Speaking of masques," G cut in, offering a white fox mask to Cindy, "I'll need to brief all of you one last time before we arrive, in – how long, Tornado?"  
  
"Half an hour, maybe less, if traffic stays like it is," the Minotaur observed, watching as a driver started to cut him off but reconsidered at the last instant upon seeing the silhouette of horns in his side mirror. "I don't anticipate many traffic problems."  
  
"Now, each of you has a hidden microphone and an earpiece incorporated into your accessories – Cindy's are in her mask, McAllister's are in his hat and his shirt-ruffles, and Glitter's are in her tiara and necklace. I commend you, by they way, on your remarkable affectation of Titania, Glitter."  
  
Glitter glanced sullenly out the window and declined to comment. Cindy speculated that the fairy had more respect for Queen Titania than she wished to admit in mixed company.  
  
"The only difficulty I had," G continued, "was with Tornado, since he elected for the plain tuxedo, and – Tornado, what *are* you chewing? I do hope it's not gum."  
  
"It's cud," he admitted sheepishly, "I'm a bit nervous, is all."  
  
G sighed in resignation and handed an earpiece to Tornado through the communication window. It had no wire coiling out of it. "Tuck this into your ear. Your buttonhole will have the microphone in it already." The Minotaur tucked the earpiece into place, where the unique size and shape of his ear, along with the arrangement of his coarse hair around his ears into a sleek, richly pomaded, and slightly Mafia-esque ponytail, conspired to hide it well.  
  
"The four of you will be in communication at all times as long as you keep all your costume accessories," G continued, "which brings us to the next point. Cindy will be keeping an eye on Charming, which means that if she is unable to prevent him from heading toward your work area by any means, or if her cover is blown, she will have to alert you covertly. In the heels of her glass slippers is concealed a special alarm which will be activated by clicking the heels together three times. This will deftly, ah, sidestep the possibility of it being accidentally triggered, haha."  
  
"Hahaha," Cindy said, politely but unenthusiastically.  
  
"In addition," G continued, disregarding the sarcasm, "The gems on your bracelet are each charged with a diversionary spell that is activated if they are broken off and flung against a hard surface." The bracelet in question was a slim chain set with a dozen sparkling stones of various colors. Overall, it looked fragile – which it would need to be if she had to tear the thing apart in a tight spot. "One assumes that by the time you need to use them the decorative value of the bracelet will be moot. The pendant in your necklace is a somewhat less subtle flash grenade, activated the same way."  
  
"I appreciate the gesture, G," Cindy said finally, "If it's all the same to you, though, I'll likely rely more on my own accessories if push comes to grab." She hitched up the skirt of her gown briefly to reveal a slim dagger tucked into a garter around her thigh. "There's more where that came from, if I need it." In truth, she had managed to find half a dozen hiding places for various blades a self-defense items, including one very sparkly but potentially crippling stiletto hidden in her coif.  
  
"I bet there is," Mac said speculatively, though Cindy wasn't entirely certain he was talking about weaponry.  
  
"Just remember your time limit, ladies and gentlemen," G said sharply, "All of you must be out of there by midnight, when Charming plans to activate the device. It must be disabled by then. Failure is not an option. And remember – if any of you are captured..."  
  
"You'll disavow all knowledge of our existence," chorused the other passengers. They knew the drill.  
  
They traveled in silence after that, and fifteen minutes later the limo pulled up to the front of the opulent mansion owned by Charming Industries, and primarily inhabited by Andrew Charming (along with a few hundred of his closest friends, when he was feeling a bit social). Currently, the mansion – which was practically a castle – was inhabited on the inside by the best- known faces of Hollywood and surrounding territories, and on the outside by the press and a small horde of celebrity-worshiping commoners, restrained by a barrier of red velvet ropes from stepping on and befouling the red carpet that had been rolled out to prevent the guests from having to get their shoes dirty on the front walk.  
  
Cindy had her fox mask on and invitation in hand by the time the doorman opened the limo's passenger-side door. Glitter exited first, followed by Mac, who handed Cindy out in time for the media to flock closer, taking copious pictures of the unlikely entourage of guests.  
  
The valet attendant automatically reached for the driver's door, but stopped abruptly when the tinted window whirred down, revealing Tornado looking like nothing so much as hired muscle. He opened the door himself and stepped out, handing the keys to the attendant but keeping a firm grip on the keychain fob for the moment.  
  
"Listen to me very closely," he said mildly, "Because I don't want to have to repeat myself. I spent the better part of today washing this beautiful car and waxing it to a high sheen. I think I did a good job, wouldn't you agree? I thought you might. So you can easily see my point of view when I ask you very politely to ensure that said car does not get dinged, scratched, scuffed, marred, or otherwise abused while you're parking it, okay? I'm just asking you this favor, one vehicular connoisseur to another, because I don't want to have to drive my friends home in a limo with a ding in the fender. That would make me sort of upset. I know you're a nice guy, and you don't want me getting upset, do you?"  
  
The valet shook his head, seeing the inherent reasonableness of the request (and, for that matter, the inherent reasonableness in the walnut-sized knuckles of the hand still gripping the keychain). Tornado released the fob and, with a friendly nod to the valet strode away to join the others, leaving the young wondering if he should even touch the beloved car without putting on gloves or something first.  
  
The doorman looked hesitantly at the motley quartet now gathered by the limo and Cindy, mustering every ounce she could of snobbish expectation of privilege, poked the gold-edged invitation at him.  
  
"We're invited," she informed the doorman, molding her voice into an aural display of wealth and long-suffering irritation, "And we would *very* much appreciate it if you would cease gawking at us like we were here solely for your curiosity and entertainment and see us in. I'm sure Andrew is expecting us."  
  
"Name?" he asked cautiously, apparently remembering the list of names he held.  
  
She smiled secretively behind the fox mask. "I'm Cinderella, of course," she said, loudly enough for the press to hear, with the expected reaction. Their mystery woman had arrived at last... and anyone who would bring her own entourage had to be someone important – right?  
  
"Remind me to bring you with me next time I decide to crash a party," Mac murmured lightly in her ear as flashbulbs erupted around them, and then fell back with the rest of the supposed entourage as they were led up the red carpet. She glanced up as they walked, noting the unnecessarily huge satellite dish atop the mansion, of such a scale that it probably picked up cable channels from Mars, let alone Westernesse.  
  
Cindy estimated that more than two hundred pictures were taken of her in the fifty feet between the limo and the front door. The fact that she was wearing a mask was small comfort, but she couldn't exactly turn back now. As soon as she had set one glass slipper outside of the car, she was committed to the mission, for better or worse. As she walked, she felt her legs settle into the sort of purposeful stride generally adopted by runway models – which made sense, as she was the one on display here, for the benefit of appearances and the benefit of her teammates. Of course, people could scarcely ignore the Cat, Fairy, and Minotaur... but they might be persuaded to disregard them for the moment.  
  
A second doorman opened the front door for them, letting them into Andrew Charming's lair, as opulent as that of some Arabian prince from a fairy tale. A white marble stairway led down from the front door to the ballroom, also floored in white marble. And elaborate chandelier hung from the ceiling, draped with crystal and glass and generally begging for a masked phantom to drop it on the unwitting guests in the name of romance. When her nom de plume for the evening was announced, the low rumble of conversation suddenly hushed as everyone turned to see who the mysterious Cinderella might be.  
  
In that moment, Cindy's breath caught in her throat in anticipation. In that sea of curious faces, she had picked out her quarry in the center of a small huddle of people that anyone would give their left kidney to meet. Then he looked up at her – and as their eyes met, she felt a chill, for the polite smile he offered did not come close to touching his eyes. Worse, she saw something in his eyes even from that distance that made her reluctant to take the first step down the marble staircase towards him, something that would not accept anything less than absolute possession of what he wanted, whatever it might be.  
  
She hoped like hell that this would not soon include her, and took her first step towards disaster.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 6 


	7. Cinderella Undercover

NEWSFLASH: Speculation has only increased at the arrival of the mysterious and masked Cinderella, with a small entourage of her own. Certainly anyone who can control a Minotaur such as the one seen driving the limousine has extraordinary talents. As far as that goes, the only known candidate for such powers is a renowned police officer in the parole division famous for her ability to rehabilitate dangerous Beasts – but she arrived fifteen minutes before Cinderella...  
  
*****  
  
"Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Alley."  
  
Tornado had up to that instant been following Mac and Glitter, working on the pretense of bundling Cindy's fur wrap to the coat check, but at the sound of that voice he stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned. His companions paused to see what the matter was, and saw a beautiful, if stone- faced, woman in a sparkling yellow ball gown decorated with artistically placed ostrich plumes, holding a stylized mask representing a canary.  
  
"Officer Callista." The Minotaur couldn't justifiably be said to squeak, not with a voice like an articulate French horn, but those two words were more in the range of a clarinet than usual. He cleared his throat. "I didn't expect to see you here, either. Small world. Um."  
  
"Well, one does not get invited to a dress ball every day, Alley – which brings me to my original question – what are you doing here? Just out of prison and straight into a tuxedo?"  
  
"We need to get going," Mac hissed at Tornado, pitched so Beauty wouldn't hear.  
  
"I'm here with one of the law partners," Tornado improvised, "You remember, I got that job at the Three Fates Attorneys at Law?" He inclined a horn in Cindy's direction.  
  
Beauty glanced over. "Which one is she?"  
  
"The maiden, I'm almost positive." Tornado was starting to sweat. "Not that I asked about it, you understand. If I told you any more it would sort of ruin the surprise."  
  
Beauty was not to be put off so easily. "And what surprise is that?" she asked evenly.  
  
Mac took pity on Tornado (a rare occurrence for any Cat, but a necessity here) and stepped in. "Don't you *know*?" he asked Beauty in utter feigned disbelief, gesturing with his gloved paws, "It's the question that's been on everyone's lips for days – 'Who is Cinderella?' What mystery woman could have so enchanted our handsome prince that he would have invited her under a pseudonym, for God's sake? Honestly, one would think you never watched the news. You guys go on ahead," he added to Tornado and Glitter, "I really *must* chat up this illustrious and entirely stunning member of Shea City's finest – you don't object, do you, officer? No I didn't expect you would – can I get you a drink? My name is Leo, by the way – as in *lion*..."  
  
Just before the unlikely pair of Cat and canary vanished into the throng, Mac gave his companions a brisk, behind-the-back thumbs-up to which the casual observer could have attached a dozen meanings. Tornado risked a glance down at Glitter as the fast-talking confidence Cat herded Beauty towards the buffet.  
  
"We don't have time for this," the fairy snapped in irritation, "He have less than four hours before the big event and he's off somewhere trying to get lucky."  
  
"Glitter, that was my parole officer he just led off," Tornado informed her, keeping his voice low, "If she finds out why I'm really here it's back to Yagga for me." Glitter looked no less annoyed by the delay. "Give him five minutes?"  
  
"Five minutes," she agreed with a frustrated sigh, "Starting now. He can meet us up there, the horny little..." She turned, shifted the wrap to her other arm, and marched off, effortlessly shoving aside someone famous enough not to expect it with one slender hand as she went. She paused to see who she had just removed so efficiently from her path. "I never liked your movies anyway," she shot at the fallen star, and continued on, completely unimpressed by fame.  
  
Cindy, meanwhile, was trying to negotiate her way through the crowd of people who seemed to be there not to actually dance (despite the fact that that's what a ball *was*) but rather to simply be seen in the radiant presence of Andrew Charming. She'd overheard the encounter with Tornado's parole officer through the earpiece in her mask, but she'd be grateful for Mac's capacity for spontaneous prevarication later, when it became clearer whether his plan to distract Beauty through interspecies flirtation worked. She was just starting to wonder if fights over rights to photo ops would break out soon, when a thin, ginger-haired little man in a business suit rather than a tuxedo approached her and touched her on the elbow with very clammy fingers, making her jump. He was remarkably ugly, with small, red- lined eyes, large ears, and small eyes lined with red like he'd been locked in a smoke-filled room for a day or two. His face seemed to be trying unsuccessfully to collapse into his nose, which was small, pointed, and constantly twitching. Overall, he looked like the result of a night of hard drinking, a grossly miscast polymorphing spell, and a hamster, in some order. His nostrils twitched thoughtfully a few times before he finally spoke.  
  
"Mr. Charming wishes to meet you." His voice was shrill and rather excitable; the words themselves all came out in a rush and seemed glad for the release – apparently to get out of the immediate presence of the majordomo's breath, which smelled like garlic-tinged mouthwash, and teeth, which looked like he'd once tried to eat a two-by-four, with mixed results. When she didn't leap to the occasion within five seconds (mainly because she was still trying to imagine what genetic calamity could have resulted in such a man, especially in the age of magical beauty enhancement), he added, almost nervously, "He doesn't like to be kept waiting, you know. Come along, then." He took her elbow again – it was no less unpleasant for knowing how cold his fingers were beforehand – and gently guided her through a fissure in the crowd to the waiting host.  
  
This appeared to be the way things were done in the Charming household, to judge by the manservant's overall manner; the master asked, and the manservant fetched, whether it be a bottle of fine champagne (from a wine cellar that was, by all accounts, well-stocked), a fancy car (Alistair had said the man collected cars like kids collected rare Yu-Gi-Oh cards), or yonder fair maiden (in Cindy's case, herself, as planned), like a rock star pointing out a tempting groupie during a concert to one of the security personnel, with instructions that she be given a special backstage pass. The really disgusting thing was, Cindy reflected, the fact that he had enough raw charisma to back it up, giving him the ability to request services that might earn lesser mortals a face full of pepper spray. She had no time to reflect any further on the inequities of corporate feudalism, for at the moment the last layer of the crowd parted, and she stood in front of her target.  
  
Up close, his photograph did him no justice. He was at least six feet tall, with the sort of athletic build that signified a personal trainer somewhere in the mansion, and a complexion that suggested a tanning bed as well. His face was well-defined, wearing a politely pleased expression, and framed with a veritable mane of glossy black hair. His dark eyes glittered strangely – it was not really greed, Cindy noted, though she was sure she had seen exactly that from the top of the stairs.  
  
"We meet at last, my mystery guest," he said in a voice that reminded Cindy vaguely of werewolves, and held a hand out to her, on the index finger of which was a band of what might have been white gold or even platinum, set with an intricately cut gemstone that was so dark red it was nearly black. Looking at the ring made Cindy feel a bit muzzy-headed and watery-eyed, like the item itself was not entirely encompassed within the usual three dimensions, so she focused instead on Charming himself, discovering that she had taken his proffered hand and the attached request for a dance.  
  
"That's an interesting ring you're wearing," she observed aloud, for the benefit of the three others silently sharing the conversation, "I don't think I've ever seen a stone quite that shade of red before."  
  
"It was a gift to my father about ten years ago," Charming replied, "from an investor, if I recall correctly. I never found out what kind of stone it was, but Father always called it the stuff that dreams are made of. I got it when he died, and as you can see..." He gestured expansively, displaying his wealth like a peacock displaying its plumes.  
  
On the landing, Glitter paused on the landing. "The stone, Cindy," she said, "What color is it?"  
  
"What's wrong?" Tornado asked, "You look a bit pale."  
  
"I'm *always* a bit pale, dumbass. I'm a Fey."  
  
"More than usual, I mean."  
  
"Maybe nothing and maybe everything. Let me listen for a minute."  
  
"It looks almost like someone made a rare red wine into a gem, almost," Cindy said, trying to sound like she was offering further gemological admiration. She was forced to cover the flinch brought on by Glitter's Fey oath (very musical, but obscene-sounding all the same) with a fake sneeze.  
  
"Where the hell did he get a bloodstone?" Glitter demanded of the mainly empty hallway. "Yeah, investor, my fairy ass. There's more to this than we thought. Step lively, Tornado. I need to go bring in the Cat."  
  
She turned into a little ball of sparks and floated back towards the ballroom.  
  
"Keep going to the door," he heard Glitter's tiny voice in his ear, "We'll meet you there if I have to drag Mac by his ears."  
  
The fairy found Mac by the buffet table, still valiantly trying to coax Beauty into accepting a drink from the cute fluffy kitty cat. Said drink, Glitter suspected, was probably laced with a few drops of some sleep potion, added by said cute fluffy kitty cat in a rather crude attempt to get Beauty tidily out of the way. Beauty, of course, was not about to accept a drink from someone she'd only just met, regardless of how well Mac proclaimed they'd gotten to know each other or how often he further declared his feeling like he'd known her all his life. Glitter hadn't the time or the patience to wait for Mac to wear down the seasoned cop, and she buzzed his ear meaningfully. He brushed her away distractedly, as if she were no more than a common moth. Once she finished her impromptu midair cartwheels, she glared at him and zoomed right back, wishing she'd had a camera in place to capture the look that crossed his face at the moment she flew directly into his ear  
  
"We don't have time for this!" she shrilled from a quarter inch away from his eardrum, "Your time is up – we have a job to do!"  
  
Mac shook his head violently and pawed at the occupied ear as nonchalantly as he possibly could. "Silly... moth," he said, only partially to Beauty (whose span of polite attention had been flagging anyway) but mainly as an insult to Glitter (which under less dire circumstances would have earned him a lacerated eardrum). She rocketed violently out of his ear and orbited his head a few times before arcing around to Beauty's ear.  
  
"Human days are few in number," she chanted, holding her hands out at Beauty, "Spend this one in deepest slumber!" Magic burst from her fingers in a small green explosion, hitting Beauty in the temple. A few baffled moments later, Beauty's eyes rolled up in her head and her legs folded up under her. Glitter turned to Mac, who looked as though he'd had his big plan yanked out from under him.  
  
"Enough mingling!" she snapped, "You're needed upstairs!"  
  
"Jesus, Glitter..." Mac whined.  
  
"Stuff it, hairball. I'll take great pleasure in dragging you, if I have to – now let's *go*!"  
  
"All right, all right. I'll have you *know* I was also keeping an eye on the fairy princess over there." He inclined his head towards Cindy as he walked.  
  
"That won't matter much if our prince Charming has a bloodstone. In fact, we may have less time than we think."  
  
"Well, what the hell's that, then?" Mac asked as he mounted the stairs after the fairy, running to keep up.  
  
"Right now, let's just say that it's something that mortals should *not* have."  
  
Tornado looked up from his post by the locked door as they approached.  
  
"Did either of you happen to see Cindy?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah, she's dancing with Charming," Mac said, "Why?"  
  
"She hasn't said anything for a while, is all," the Minotaur replied, "Not since after she described his ring, and that was a good ten minutes ago. I hear him talking, through her microphone, but she hasn't said anything back in a while, have you noticed?"  
  
"Every minute she spends with him is one minute he isn't coming up here and catching us," Mac said, pragmatically, though he put his ears back doubtfully when he added, "I'm sure she's just keeping an eye on things."  
  
"Still here," they heard Cindy say through their earpieces, though pitched so Charming didn't overhear, then, louder to Charming, "I expect you do what needs to be done as far as the company is concerned." Her particular emphasis on "do what needs to be done" told her teammates all they needed to know.  
  
"Right," Mac replied, "Just signal us if things start getting cagey."  
  
"I always do what needs to be done," Charming replied, briefly fingering the bloodstone ring, "in order to reach my goals."  
  
That gesture was the last thing Cindy saw before the cloud closed over her mind.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 7. 


	8. Fairy Diplomacy

The three would-be saboteurs regarded the locked door for a moment after hearing Cindy's reassurances, but then Mac unbuttoned his dress jacket and reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing a very thin bundle of folded black cloth that looked to the untrained eye like mundane, if very finely woven, silk. He set the bundle on the floor and unfolded it until the portable hole was more evident, now appearing as a circular recess in the floor containing a locked mithril briefcase, which the Cat pulled out and set aside on the plush red carpeting before folding the hole (actually the opening to a very handy little pocket dimension, but few people worried about the mechanics much anymore) away into his coat pocket once more. He looked at the lock, which sported three panels of crystals, currently glowing a contented shade of blue. He knew that if they turned red – boom. He didn't know what boom might be, but decided that in the grand scheme of things it was best for all concerned that he did not find out  
  
"I'm going to need absolute concentration on this," he said shortly to Tornado and Glitter, "And I can't work with you two breathing down my neck, got it? I think I got about seven lives left, but that doesn't mean getting my head blown off by a trap spell won't upset me. While I'm working on this, you two can watch the stairs or something in case we get any surprises. Chances are whatever Glitter can't stop, Tornado can, am I right?" With that, he turned back and started pulling components from the case and assembling them with the speed that only comes from hours of practice.  
  
Tornado shrugged at Glitter, who returned the gesture and tapped out a cigarette.  
  
"I can concentrate better *without* the smell of tobacco smoke, thank you," Mac added over his shoulder.  
  
Glitter sighed, stuck the unlit cigarette between her lips, and walked down the corridor with Tornado to keep watch.  
  
Mac removed his gloves and placed the business end of a flat lead into the keyhole of the lock. The other end of the head was attached to a very complex example of Faerietech that would – God willing – find the right frequency without getting Mac blown up.  
  
Unlike most Faerietech, this particular device looked rather uninspiring and, at best, avant garde. In fact, most people who saw it would have simply assumed that it was a rather chintzy example of the magic-powered foot massagers that Wal-Mart sold, with multicolored crystals set into the vibrating panel where you set your feet. That is, if they ignored the ribbon of computer wire that now snaked out of it.  
  
Mac knew better. He'd used a device similar to this to gain entry into his old employer's business accounts (after all, it was Mac who got him that position as CEO, was it not, a favor that required reimbursement) and transfer a tidy sum sufficient to feather his nest egg for retirement. It was just his rotten luck he'd been plucked by the FBI. C'est la vie.  
  
He set his sensitive paw-pads on the device's panel of crystals, his claws pulled well in, letting the delicate whiskers on his inner wrists pick up the miniscule vibrations generated as he began, very gingerly, to get a feel for the lock. In terms of surgical delicacy required, this ranked somewhere in the range of sneaking into a dragon's lair while it was sleeping, for the purpose of sticking a frankfurter up its left nostril to roast.  
  
The device started to hum quietly to itself, like a cat purring in private contentment but in the subsonic register generally used by elephants to communicate with other herds fifty miles away. It tried that resonance for a few seconds, offering it carefully to the lock, an then trying a microscopically higher resonance.  
  
This was going to take a while, Mac knew. He had already settled in on his haunches and curled his tail around himself for the long haul. Nobody could wait like a cat. Impatience often meant an empty stomach, especially in the wilderness of corporate America.  
  
***  
  
An hour into their vigil, Tornado had taken a seat on the floor by the stairs, his legs folded in that complicated way they had, and his brow was furrowed in deep concentration, the sort that generally comes from trying to work out calculus in one's head. Glitter had started amusing herself by tracing outlines in the air and watching them chase each other around. The current scenario appeared to be Pac-Man vs. Pokemon.  
  
"I smell rubber burning," Glitter finally said, as Pac-Man gobbled up Pikachu, "What gives?"  
  
"A pure antimagic core is inherently unstable on the atomic level," Tornado said, "Meaning that it's basically radioactive."  
  
"Which means, like you said earlier, that it would be a bad thing to breach it," Glitter replied, "What's your point, if you have one?"  
  
"Do you remember the size of the core on the plans? No? I'd say that if the drawings were to scale, it was about the size of a very geometrical loaf of bread. Now, the Tactical Bestial Units of the police sometimes use pellets coated with antimagic to subdue magical Beasts – I have this on *very* good authority by the way – but those amounts are relatively negligent, because antimagic is so potent."  
  
"I appreciate the science lesson," Glitter growled, showing that she didn't, "But could you *please* get to the point of all this?!"  
  
"My point is, he's keeping a device containing a large antimagic core in a room with a *magical* lock."  
  
Glitter said nothing.  
  
"The lock was still functioning perfectly, Glitter. Even accounting for shielding, the lock should have shorted out not long after everything was in place – maybe a month on the outside." He looked down at the fairy. "And a month after that, the radiation should have had a purely magical creature like you puking your guts out back there. Mac and I probably would have felt a bit queasy."  
  
"Well, I felt fine back there, I'll have you know," Glitter informed him, "So maybe he hasn't had it that long."  
  
Tornado shook his head. "It just doesn't *fit*. The first things I was taught in MIT were magic effects on mundane technology, and antimagic effects on magical items. I don't think Charming is a complete fool."  
  
"The fact that he's got a bloodstone says otherwise," Glitter said, "That is some *bad* mojo he's playing with right now."  
  
"Unseelie magic?" Tornado asked.  
  
She nodded, grimacing. "The stone itself is made by drawing out all of someone's blood with a certain spell – usually a mortal victim, but very occasionally you find a teal one." She glanced at the Minotaur's blank expression. "Fairy blood doesn't have iron in it... get the idea?"  
  
It was hard for a bovine face to look queasy, but Tornado managed the best he could  
  
"So, what you're saying is," he said quietly, "A pure technologist has possession of a Fairy artifact? That doesn't make sense."  
  
"And I doubt that the Unseelie are going to let him far out of their sight as long as he has it, let alone stand by quietly while he gets ready to send both Fairy courts – Seelie and Unseelie – back to Westernesse." Presently, Glitter wrinkled her nose. "Something reeks all of a sudden..." She whirled on the Minotaur. "Tornado!"  
  
"That wasn't me!" he protested, then raised his head to sniff, "It smells... violent. Almost like—"  
  
That was as far as he got before the redcap dropped on them from the ceiling.  
  
***  
  
Down in the main ballroom, Cindy was starting to accept the futility of battering against the walls that trapped her inside her own mind. She found that if she relaxed and stopped actively fighting, she was able to see out through her own eyes again, like peering out the windshield of a car someone else was driving. Charming was talking as they danced, though at present she could only dimly hear the words, and she could not regain mastery of her own limbs. *What the hell was in that ring?* she wondered, *some sort of magical date rape spell?*  
  
She was distracted by a dark figure sliding silently through the crowd, drawing as much attention to itself as a chilly draft; people moved away without really noticing it. She tracked it with her eyes as it sidled up next to Charming and leered around his shoulder at her, its pale face contorting into a gleeful rictus framed by a stringy black tangle of hair.  
  
Charming turned and apparently did not see the leering horror lurking next to him.  
  
"Hello, Siobhan," he said from fifteen thousand miles away, as though being next to an Unseelie were an everyday occurrence, "Cinderella, this is Siobhan, my secretary. Siobhan, this is Cinderella."  
  
As her traitorous hand shook Siobhan's talon, Cindy's vision flickered and, for a split second, she saw a beautiful and quite unhorrifying red-haired woman in a green suit. That glimpse was enough to tell Cindy that, whatever else was happening to her, she could see through the fairy Glamour that Siobhan – or whatever the thing's name really was – had put up to prevent people from running in terror.  
  
"Siobhan's really helped me get my latest project off the ground," Charming continued blithely, "In fact, she assures me that the unveiling at midnight will be a smashing success."  
  
"Cindy," she heard Glitter say into her left ear, "We got Unseelie up here! Repeat, we got evil fairies! Are you listening to me, dammit?"  
  
Cindy wanted to respond. Hell, she wanted to scream, the mission be damned. She did manage to open her mouth slightly, willing herself to say something like "We got them down here, too" but her frozen vocal cords refused to cooperate. She amended her earlier assessment: She knew that Unseelie there at the ball, and she could see them even if nobody else could – but she couldn't do a damned thing about it.  
  
The only question now was, *why* were they there? What did they want?  
  
An unearthly scream echoed down from the upper levels, and a chill ran up Cindy's spine as she thought about what an Unseelie might do to her friends. Then she thought about what Glitter might do to an Unseelie and found herself slightly comforted, in the same way one feels when the monster in a movie shows up and eats the character that has been a royal asshole throughout the film. For many of the same reasons.  
  
***  
  
Tornado tossed his head sharply, and the shrieking redcap had no choice but to come along for the ride, for the hand that had unwisely grabbed the Minotaur's nose ring was now partially fused to it. The air was already filled with the smell of cooked fairy-flesh, only to be seasoned by a damp *splot* when the redcap impacted with the wall, leaving a scarlet blossom on the plaster from the blood that redcaps traditionally used to dye their namesake caps red. Tornado grabbed the senseless Unseelie's hand, peeled the charred fingers from around his nose ring, and dropped the monster to the floor while he clapped his hand to his traumatized nose.  
  
"Oh, *man*, does that ever hurt..." He noticed that Glitter was looking at him askance. "Minotaur noses are very sensitive, you know."  
  
"Actually, I was wondering more about what that ring did to the redcap," she said, "It would have to be cold iron. That's not a good thing to wear around fairies, Tornado. Just so you know."  
  
"Well," he huffed, "Just think how much worse it would have been if it wasn't. As it is I don't think he'll be up to any more mischief for a while. God *damn*..." He rubbed his nose again. "Anyway, I think you were just saying something rather prescient about the Unseelie keeping Charming close at hand?"  
  
"Oh, forget it," Glitter said.  
  
Mac, with the impeccable sense of timing inherent to all Cats, chose this moment to approach Tornado and Glitter, stepping delicately around the redcap with an air of feline disgust.  
  
"How lovely," he said, "I've been busting my butt for the last hour and you two are having barbecued demon out here? Anyway, I've got good news and bad news. The good news is that I have the door open."  
  
"Is your bad news worse than Unseelie being at the ball?" Glitter asked.  
  
"Probably... I've just discovered that we aren't dealing with antimagic after all."  
  
"Well, that's *good*," Tornado said, "Isn't it?"  
  
"Well, you tell me. Judging by the way my resonance cracker turned into something horrible and chewed through the floor, I'd say we were dealing with *raw* magic."  
  
Tornado went very still has he made a few strategic recalculations. "If we're talking about a core consisting of the same amount of raw magic that we thought was going to be *anti*magic..." Finally he nodded. "I'd say that's bad, yes."  
  
"Uh," Mac hedged, "assuming – hypothetically, of course – that this device goes off as planned. How much 'bad' are we talking about here?"  
  
"Well. Um. Considering the amount we're talking about... if that thing goes off, it would effectively eliminate every remaining nonmagical species in America. Maybe further."  
  
There was a grave silence.  
  
"Well, look on the bright side," Glitter interjected dryly, "At least now we know why the Unseelie are so interested in him."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 8. 


	9. Ballroom Blitz

Author's note: I'm going to be out of town from 5/15 to 5/23, so needless to say no update next week. Sorry this one is so late, btw.

"Mr. Charming, we may have a problem." The speaker looked like a Secret Service agent in his black suit, black tie, and opaque shades. Either he was exactly that or he chased aliens on the sly. Cindy opted for the former possibility, because it was hard to believe in little green men from another planet when you had goblins (which, to be fair, were little and green anyway) digging up your flowers instead.

Charming turned to the guard, and as his attention shifted away from her Cindy felt the magical stranglehold on her mind lessening slightly, though he still held onto her hand. "What sort of a problem?" he asked, in a tone that indicated that if the problem did not involve an angry dragon or imminent nuclear holocaust, one guard would be joining the ranks of the unemployed in the morning.

"We've, ah, detected a possible security breach," said the guard, "near the device." He glanced in Cindy's direction, a not-so-subtle hint that he didn't want to give any specific details in her presence.

"Define a 'possible' security breach," Charming said.

"The lock may have been disabled. It could be a malfunction… considering. I just wanted to notify you."

"Thank you, James," Charming said impatiently, "If you feel it's important enough to tell me about it, don't you think it's important enough to check it out?"

"You said you didn't want anyone going there who didn't need to. You were very emphatic on that, sir."

"Just go check it out, and if the lock sprung on its own then sue the supplier. I had enough trouble with the mundane lock as it was. Excuse me, darling." This last was, of course, to Cindy as he turned back to her, but her willpower had gotten its metaphorical boot in the opening left by his momentary lapse of attention, and she managed to prevent the walls from completely closing in again. "No need to worry – just a routine check. I'm sure you know how many people would love to crash a ball of this sort, don't you?"

"Lots, I'm sure," she said as she watched the guard head off for the stairs, "I do hope he doesn't find anything unexpected up there." She shifted her weight slightly onto the balls of her feet, preparing to tap out the warning signal with her heels, but as her heels left the floor Siobhan leaned close to Charming's ear.

Cindy would never know what Charming thought he heard, but Cindy heard the Unseelie's sibilant whispering, very distinctly.

"She's so beautiful, isn't she? Look at her. She adores you. You can have her if you want. She's yours for the taking."

Charming's eyes glazed slightly, and a horrible smile crawled into place across his lips.

"Let's go somewhere private," he said as his grip on her wrist turned steely, "Where we can talk more easily. We have so much to discuss, my beauty, you and I."

Cindy doubted that very much, but her current choice was either following him under her own power or being dragged bodily by one wrist. She touched her necklace reassuringly as they left the ballroom.

"What the hell is that hissing noise?" Mac asked in irritation, taking off his hat to examine the earpiece secreted within. "Don't tell me these stupid things are going bad already."  
  
Glitter had gone very still during the hissing, listening hard. "Cindy's got company downstairs in the ballroom. It sounded like an Avarice, but it's hard to tell. Jesus, is this place infested with Unseelie or something?"  
  
"Well, it would explain where our young millionaire got a bloodstone. Hey Torny," he added to the nearby door, set slightly ajar so the lock wouldn't re-engage, "Any luck?"  
  
"I told you this wasn't going to be easy," Tornado replied shortly, "So would you please just hush up so I can figure this out?" He shut his eyes, visualizing the plans that he'd spent so much time committing to memory. In his mind he traced the wires and circuits and leads that connected each element to each other and to the core and finally, his eyes still closed, he reached down to his toolbox and brushed his fingers across the rows and rows of tools (which could be used to fix everything from a bulldozer to a wristwatch) until he found the one he needed and pulled it out of its slot.  
  
As long as he stayed calm, he thought as he opened his eyes again, everything would be fine. He studied the selected screwdriver critically, twirled it twice between his fingers – a mannerism he'd picked up from Gangrene which Tornado had come to believe brought him good luck – and set to work on the panel he'd decided would give him the best access to the inner workings of the device.  
  
He had two screws out when he heard the voice in the hallway.  
  
"All right, you," the guard said to Mac, "What business do you have up here?"  
  
The Cat looked up at him with kittenish innocence. "I was just looking for a litter box – is there one nearby, perchance?"  
  
"What, don't you know how to use a flush toilet like everyone else?"  
  
"We Cats prefer not to adopt every human mannerism. Now, the litter box, if you would be so kind?"  
  
Tornado had gone very still, almost to the point of willing himself not to exist. It would only take a wrong glance for the guard to see that the door wasn't quite closed, and then—  
  
He hadn't realized that the hand holding the recently-removed screws had tightened into a fist until the point of one of the screws bit into his palm, causing him to reflexively drop them. He barely managed to catch one with the fingertips of his injured hand, but the other one bounced into his toolbox with a sharp ping and a rattle that seemed to fill the room.  
  
Please oh please oh please oh pl—  
  
"Hey – who opened this door?" The guard's attention, attracted by the metallic sounds, had found the opened door.  
  
"It was open when I got here—" Mac began, but the guard had already pulled a radio from his belt and thumbed the talk button.  
  
"We've got a security breach on the third floor, near the device," was as far as the guard got before Glitter materialized in front of him, plucked the radio from his hand, and kicked him in the face. His nose erupted with blood, but he tried valiantly to capture her, right up to the moment when she broke the radio over the back of his head. There was a stunned pause before he fell to his knees and from there to the floor  
  
"I thought we were going to do this the subtle way," Mac pointed out to her as she dropped the mangled electronics on the carpet.  
  
"That is subtle for me," she returned, "And it's not like I killed him."  
  
"Well, he's still here, but bleeding and injured now, and when he wakes up he isn't going to be open to negotiation at all... what on earth are you doing now?"  
  
Glitter had produced a stick of iridescent chalk and was now tracing an oblong rectangle on the wall, about the size and shape of a slightly insane door. She added an ornate door-handle to her creation, and knocked on it twice. The magic door clicked open almost questioningly, and she swung it open the rest of the way to reveal a space roughly the size of a broom closet, apparently hewn out of solid rock. She bundled the unconscious guard through the door and shut it behind him. Almost as an afterthought, she rubbed out the drawn handle with her fingertips.  
  
"The should keep him out of the way for another hour or two," she said, "but the pocket will expire at midnight, so we can't exactly dawdle."  
  
"What happens to him when the pocket expires?" Mac asked dubiously.  
  
"The wall will spit him back out into the hallway – if he doesn't fight."  
  
Mac decided not to ask what would happen in the guard did fight. He returned to the door. "Hey Torny, we might have some company real soon, so if you could step on it just a bit—"  
  
"I'm going as fast as I can!" the Minotaur snarled, and Mac took an involuntary hop away from the door, trying not to acknowledge that his tail had puffed out and his back wanted badly to arch and bristle out. There was an edge to Tornado's voice just then, but ragged, like the blade of a hacksaw. The stresses of the past few days and the past few hours were wearing at Tornado's fraying nerves, and even Mac could tell that it might take only a little nudge at the wrong moment to send the Minotaur into a Rage at this point.  
  
"Okay," Mac said, "All right. Let's all just take a deep breath and calm ourselves, shall we?" He heard the encouraging sound of Minotaur lungs doing just that. "Okay, good... now, can you find your happy place?"  
  
"What happy place?" Tornado asked, confused.  
  
"Oh. You don't know about that. Um. Just imagine yourself in a place where you feel happy and relaxed, working on, I don't know, something you've always enjoyed doing." He paused discreetly. "Have you found it?"  
  
"I remember the first time Gangrene taught me how to tune a bike," Tornado ventured, "Will that work?"  
  
"Yes!" Mac pounced, "You're happy and relaxed and Gangrene is teaching you how to tune a bike and could you PLEASE try to relax quickly because I can hear footsteps coming up the stairs!"  
  
"That was smooth," Glitter remarked dryly.  
  
"I'm just getting a bit edgy, okay? I may have seven lives left but I don't look forward to losing any of them soon! Cindy, if you're still on the air, please be advised that Tornado is getting close to critical, so if you could just tidy up downstairs it would really help us."  
  
"I read you," Cindy said, sotto voce but distinct through the earpieces, "I'm in the middle of something potentially complicated, but I'll be up as soon as I can. Stay frosty, Torny."  
  
"I'm trying," Tornado said uneasily, "I really am."  
  
"Did you say something?" Charming said next to Cindy.  
  
"Just thinking aloud," Cindy said, "It wasn't anything important, really."  
  
"Ah, well. Where were we?"  
  
"I believe that you were just telling me the benefits of owning your own mundane technology firm."  
  
"I don't like that expression – 'mundane technology' – it makes it sound as though the sort I make is on its way out, when in fact I expect its use to spike sharply in the coming quarter."  
  
"You sound like you know something the rest of us peasants don't," Cindy ventured, making it sound like banter.  
  
"Ah, my dear Cinderella... you are hardly a peasant. You are my mysterious femme fatale, the one who's captured my heart."  
  
Oh God, Cindy thought, he really thinks I'm going to buy that load of crap?  
  
"You hardly even know me," she said, "And I don't even know if I'll still like you down the road. You know how it is, I'm sure."  
  
Whether it was the tone of her voice or her choice of words, Cindy realized that she had made a tactical error, but she simply had no taste for pickup lines, even if their messenger was rich and handsome. The only trouble was, with the two of them alone in the hallway pretense seemed to become irrelevant.  
  
"Like me?" he asked, as though the sentiment didn't exist on Planet Charming, "Haven't you seen everyone in the ballroom? Everyone adores me, and it should be easy for you to learn to love me as well." He grabbed her and kissed her hard, maneuvering deftly to her mouth below the bottom edge of the half-mask. She tried to push him away, with little effect, so she tried the direct approach.  
  
She brought her knee up very hard between Charming's legs. As a refusal, it was rather succinct.  
  
He made a muffled choking noise against her mouth at the unexpected impact, his grip loosening enough that she was able to wrench herself free of his grasp, wiping her mouth on the back of her wrist. The look that crossed his face told her that no one had ever successfully refused him before, let alone by violence.  
  
"Get used to it," she growled, turned to walk away, and found herself facing a swarm of dark fairies. "Oh hell," she remarked, and got ready to click her heels together.  
  
Upstairs, Tornado was just starting the delicate task of locating and clipping key wires he had pinpointed in the plans that connected the raw magic core to the remainder of the device. The magical radiation was doing odd things to his vision, though, making him feel like his eyes were having an argument over what they were seeing, which in turn disagreed with what his brain insisted had to be in front of him. His fingernails (and, he supposed, his horns as well) had turned a brilliant shade of blue, and he was starting to feel a bit giddy. And all the while one frustrating question kept running in a mental hamster wheel: Why raw magic? Why raw magic? Why raw magic?  
  
In the hall, the first wave of security personnel were learning what sort of damage a five-foot Cat and a fairy could cause. Glitter had unsheathed a sword from somewhere, the blue-silver mithril leaving trails of crackling purple flames as she slashed at anyone who dared get close to her or the door she was guarding. Mac was opting for something more akin to some feline martial art, seeming not so much to move as to flow from combatant to combatant, striking at pressure points and clawing at faces but never quite holding still long enough for anyone to hit him back. By chance, one of the guards managed to catch hold of Mac, only to find himself trying to hold a very angry, hissing whirlwind with claws. By the time Mac squirmed free (or the guard voluntarily let go – Mac couldn't remember which and it didn't really matter anyway), his would-be captor was bleeding in a dozen places.  
  
Tornado kept his vigil, occasionally resorting to closing his eyes and tracing the wires by feel when his eyesight became too unreliable. He could hear the fighting outside, grateful that Glitter and Mac were doing their best to buy him enough time to disable the device. He clipped the first wire and glanced at his watch – it was 11:02.  
  
At 11:06 Tornado had two more wires clipped and the second wave of security personnel arrived. Forewarned by their colleagues, they came better equipped to handle the threat in the hallway. Tornado distantly registered the fact that the sounds of combat seemed to have stopped, but the bulk of his concentration was fixed on the complex innards of the device. He wiped the sweat from his brow on the back of his shirtsleeve (his dress jacket having been shed several minutes ago for comfort's sake) and reached forward to clip the fourth wire - snip. He was nearly done.  
  
His ear twitched at the sound of the door opening behind him. He had just picked out the last wire and was reaching toward it when he felt something rest against his head, just behind his left ear. It felt horribly like the barrel of a gun.  
  
"Um, can I help you?" he quavered, not immediately withdrawing his hands from the machine. He glanced over his shoulder to find that, yes, he was now staring down the business end of a rifle, and swallowed hard. The guard at the other end of it seemed to be in no mood for social niceties, like negotiation.  
  
"Stand up slowly and put your hands where I can see them," the guard ordered.  
  
"Look, it's very important that I finish what I'm doing before midnight," Tornado said, "Otherwise Mr. Charming may find he's just made a horrible mistake."  
  
"And what sort of a mistake would that be?" The tone of the question told Tornado that the asking was merely a formality, but he carried on valiantly regardless.  
  
"Look, if this thing goes off at midnight, it could very well destroy every non-magical race in the country."  
  
"That's cute. Tell me another one."  
  
"You have to believe me – Charming has essentially built a doomsday machine—"  
  
"Step away from it right now."  
  
"—and if it goes off, every human in America will die, don't you understand?" Tornado could see more guards filing into the room – obviously Glitter and Mac had not fared well this time around.  
  
"They'll die or be changed or something but humanity as a species will end on this continent!" Tornado continued desperately. "You have to listen to me – this is a core of concentrated raw magic! If it detonates, all of you will cease to exist! Can't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?!" He saw the incoming gun barrel too late to avoid being cracked in the temple with it. His vision filled with stars for a few moments.  
  
"Shut up already," he heard someone say, "And stop trying to sound like you know what you're talking about."  
  
"Let's get him out of here." He felt hands and arms pulling him to his feet. Still dazed, he didn't offer them any resistance—  
  
--until, in his earpiece, he heard three sharp clicks and an urgent beeping. Cindy had set off the emergency alert. As if that wasn't enough, he could hear her shouting – screaming, actually, for her attacker or attackers to get away, followed by a muffled explosion and the sound of maniacal gibbering.  
  
He had managed to keep the Rage at bay thus far this evening, by sheer willpower, despite all the stresses that had been building since he'd found out about Gangrene. He had resolved that he wouldn't let it take over again, not after Gangrene, but now it surged up like a volcano, filling him with a fresh wave of strength and his brain with crimson fog.  
  
He straightened up abruptly with a loud bellow, dragging two armloads of guards up to slam them against the ceiling. Those that did not let go even then found themselves whipped around as he fought his way free, flinging them against the walls with concussive force. He rounded on the one guard left standing and lowered his head, but fought the urge to charge just yet. With the tiny shred of his own mind he had fought to retain against the tide of the Rage, he reached into the device unchallenged and tore out the last wire. His job was done – but he wasn't, not by a long shot. The Rage could not be controlled or reasoned with, only aimed... and a Minotaur was renowned for finding his target, even in the most labyrinthine setting.  
  
End of Part 9.


	10. Raging Minotaur

Mac was dead. This was obvious even to Glitter, whose knowledge of mortal biology was relatively hazy, mainly covering painful ways to get humans' attention through the thickest drunken haze – which of course, worked quite efficiently on sober humans as well. It just made sense that the gunshot wound between the Cat's eyes would be fatal, even if one ignored the other two wounds to his shoulder and chest. He who lives by the sword dies by the rifle, she thought grimly.  
  
The second round of fighting had started to go badly when one of the guards managed to deploy a net over Glitter, which wouldn't have been so bad if it had been made of anything else but iron mesh. As it was, Glitter counted herself relatively fortunate that she wasn't one of the Fey races that were actually burned by iron, though it was enough to weaken her to the point that gravity – a branch of physics that tended to quietly ignore winged fairies rather than try to figure out how aerodynamics could possibly apply – abruptly became oppressive. Magic, of course, was quite out of the question. Mac had tried to defend her, she knew, despite his assertions that he owed nothing to the Fey, and for his troubles he now lay slumped over the netted fairy.  
  
It would only have gotten worse if the guards had had an opportunity to take physical custody of Glitter, but they had all gone to help their brothers-in-arms capture Tornado. That meant that they would be back any min—  
  
The bellow was so loud that she felt it through the floor. She laboriously craned her head in that direction just in time to see a guard fly through the door, knocking it the rest of the way open, to impact head-downwards against the wall opposite with a cough of expelled breath and slide down to the floor. To judge by the sounds of chaos, the other guards were having as much or more difficulty, and a minute later the reason why strode out into the hallway.  
  
Tornado's eyes blazed with crimson fire. It was the sort of primitive fire that Prometheus had once stolen from the gods, with the same potential for destruction – the sort that Theseus had had to fight in the Minoan Labyrinth, and it was blindingly obvious that it was not comfortable in the remains of Tornado's tuxedo. The sleeves of his dress shirt had split under the strain of its wearer's exertions, and now flapped in white streamers from his shoulders. The cuffs, which Cindy had helped Tornado attached just four hours earlier, were miraculously still in place, which just proved that the gods had a sense of humor.  
  
Tornado paused on his way past and regarded Glitter and Mac for a few moments before apparently working out what needed to be done. He rolled Mac off of Glitter and seized the net, tearing it in two as though he were tearing apart a spider web. He tossed the halves aside and continued on his way, loping down the hallway in long strides that boded very ill for whomever lay at the end of his journey. Much later, Glitter would realize that Tornado's eyes had managed to retain the barest rim of brown around the pupil.  
  
For the moment, however, she felt her strength returning in the absence of the iron-mesh nest. She sat up and gave Mac what she intended to be a final glance before she went to ensure that the device had been disabled, but her sharp fairy eyes noticed something peculiar – the pupils of his half-lidded eyes were starting to dilate.  
  
Moments later, the Cat heaved in a huge, convulsive breath – his first in several minutes – which turned to a fit of coughing. As he doubled over with the effort of remembering how to breathe, there was a small but distinct ping on the floor. He opened watering eyes and saw a spent bullet rocking lazily to a stop.  
  
"Where'd that come from?" he choked.  
  
"A hole in your forehead," Glitter informed him bluntly, watching the slug in case it decided to do anything else amazing.  
  
Mac shut his eyes in something closer to exasperation than pious gratitude that he was still alive, because it was clear that "still" was a less appropriate word than, say, "again".  
  
"Shit," he growled, "That makes six, doesn't it?"  
  
"If it helps, the hole seems to have closed up just fine."  
  
Mac got to his feet and strolled over to one of the fallen guards. The man, to judge by the expression that crossed his face when Mac bent over him, had obviously seen the Cat die. As he watched, the fur finished re-growing over what had been a fatal bullet wound.  
  
"I won't say you missed," Mac said calmly, "because you and I both know you didn't. I am, however, going to ask you for a little favor." He held out his paw. "I require your gun, right now. I suppose you could try something amusing like shooting me again, but it didn't seem to work too well last time, now did it?" A few moments later, the butt of a handgun was placed with extreme care into Mac's palm. "Good human."  
  
He turned away, cocking the weapon.  
  
"You see, Glitter?" he said, "If people just took the time to talk to each other, it's amazing what they can accomplish."  
  
"Well, I'm just about done talking," Glitter retorted.  
  
"Me too," Mac admitted, "Right now we've got a fair damsel who needs rescuing from Prince Charming. You go on ahead and cover Torny while I make sure the device is well and truly slain."  
  
Glitter nodded, and they parted company.  
  
Tornado vaulted over the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the ballroom, splashing down with the force of a breaching orca in a punch bowl big enough to breed exotic goldfish in, as long as they didn't mind living in a mixture of citrus and champagne with pineapple rings floating on the surface. He straightened up and regarded the stunned tableau of guests surrounding the table, then raised his head and sniffed the air. Once he'd found the scent he was looking for, he roared – with such force that every window overlooking the ballroom shattered, the delicate custom-carved ice sculptures of various waterfowl and mythical creatures burst, and the huge ornate chandelier overlooking the crowd exploded in a shower of sparks and crystals, plummeting towards the throng. The Minotaur looked up sharply, and leapt out of the punch bowl, intercepting the chandelier in midair and bearing it down onto a clear patch of once-smooth parquet floor as the crowd started to panic and run towards the doors.  
  
He pulled himself free of the tangle of what was now mostly metal and wiring, shrugging free of the last tatters of a shirt that would never see another ball, except maybe as a polishing rag after the fact. He strode on, ignoring for now the shouts of the terrified people around him as he parted the crowd like a hand being dragged lazily through a stream. He was riding the Rage now, as a man might ride a Centaur – only by its leave and with a perfect understanding of who was in control.  
  
He knew he was getting close when he smelled the Unseelie, and he knew he had reached his goal when they attacked. Not even the dark denizens of Faeryland would be able to stop him, though – he Had a Job to Do.  
  
Then the world exploded.  
  
Cindy swung the light-amulet in tight arcs, only sure of a true hit when the thing popped like a flashbulb. G's spell had been effective seven times so far, but with each successive firing the flash was less brilliant, and Cindy knew it would only be a matter of time before the Unseelie realized this, and not very long after that they would close in again. Desperate to clear a path out of the treacherous hallway, Cindy squeezed her eyes shut, whirled the amulet twice over her head like a sling, and dashed the item against the wall as hard as she could.  
  
To say it broke would be like saying Hannibal Lector had an eating disorder. It detonated, like a concentrated supernova on a gold chain. Her vision went painfully scarlet through her clenched eyelids, and she heard the shrieks and angry, pained hisses of the dark fairies, an exclamation from Charming behind her, and a surprised bellow from in front of her.  
  
She opened her dazzled eyes, and as the dancing purple spots cleared from her vision, a huge shape in front of her resolved into Tornado. The few minutes he'd spent tangling with the Unseelie had not been kind – in addition to his ruined tuxedo, the Tanglers had rendered his carefully combed hair and beard a mass of knots and snarls, and other, more razor- fingered fairies had apparently tried to kill him by paper cut, fairly covering him with thin, painful-looking cuts that had only been partially deflected by his thick Minotaur hide. The overall effect was that of Bruce Banner losing his temper while working at a Chippendales club.  
  
His eyes still blazed, showing no sign of any ill effect from the explosion of light as he stepped forward through the space that had until recently been swarming with evil fey. Cindy glanced back at Charming, who backed away apprehensively from the advancing Minotaur (and for good reason, thought Cindy) until two thin hands curled over his shoulders and Siobhan slithered up to whisper in Charming's ear. The man's expression of fear started to shift in response to her words, and Cindy knew that she didn't have much time.  
  
Tornado was still advancing on Charming, his head lowered and his upper lip curled back to show a set of pointed teeth not found in the mouth of any other bovine species. Cindy never claimed to be an expert on the ways of Minotaurs, but Tornado's aim seemed fairly clear, so she steeled herself, keeping in mind what Tornado had said about Gangrene being able to break the Rage, and stepped in his path.  
  
Tornado kept advancing for a few steps, but just when Cindy had about decided that he was going to run her down, he stopped, just nose-to-nose with Cindy so that she had to lean back slightly. From her unique vantage point, she saw the barest knife-edge of brown circling the pupils of his Rage- reddened eyes, and even though he had ceased forward moment for now, his face and hands twitched with anticipation; he was fighting it, but it took all of his energy to do so. Part of him obviously wanted to do to Charming what a sledgehammer did to a ripe watermelon, but another part—  
  
"We have to go," Cindy said, "We don't have any more time, we need to go now, and quickly. Please. Forget him. We need to go."  
  
She was ready to repeat her soothing entreaty – probably would have kept on it all night if she had to – but Tornado glanced past her at Charming once more and apparently reached his decision. He picked Cindy up around the waist with one huge hand, slung her over his shoulder, and turned to go.  
  
"No!"  
  
Cindy looked up from her awkward position and saw that Charming had apparently recovered his nerve, as he was pointing a pistol at the Beast bearing away his prize. Tornado half-turned at Charming's denial of the obvious.  
  
"You can't have her!" Charming spat, "She's mine! I chose her, and they promised me I could have her!" They were the words of a petulant child, but they became something far more serious when uttered from behind a gun. "Put her down – now!" To emphasize his point, he fired a shot that was probably meant to go over Tornado's head, but nicked off the tip of one of his horns. The Minotaur grunted in surprise and anger, and he turned back to face Charming again.  
  
"Tornado, we have to go!" Cindy yelled, "We don't have time for th—GET YOUR GODDAMN HANDS OFF OF ME!" This last was directed at Charming, who had ducked under Tornado's swing and grabbed Cindy's ankle. Her words were punctuated by a sharp kick, which drove the heel of one of her glass slippers into Charming's nose. "Tornado! Run!" Her words penetrated the Rage and Tornado turned abruptly and loped away from the bleeding man and his Unseelie companion who, Cindy noticed, had done nothing to aid him in his attempted conquest.  
  
She heard Charming shouting for his guards, who appeared on the balcony, hailing bullets on the fleeing saboteurs as Tornado galloped straight through the ruined ballroom. Tornado roared as a few shots hit home, but he kept running, unstoppable as a juggernaut.  
  
Mac appeared between two of the gunmen. "Miss me?" he asked brightly before throwing them over the railing. "Gotcha covered! Keep going!" he shouted down to the ballroom, and leaped up to balance lightly on the railing as he fired upon the guards across the room. With nonchalance indicative of all cats, regardless of their powers of speech, he strolled along the rail towards the stairs, firing at the guards across the room. He paused to kick an approaching guard, his dexterous tail wrapping around the weapon as it flew from the man's hand and subsequently flipping it into the waiting paw that until that moment wielded no weapon.  
  
"Glitter!" the Cat shouted, "cover them when they get outside – we might have more company!" As the green ball of light zoomed past, Mac pirouetted around a wooden carving that marked the beginning of the banister and fairly surfed down the curved length of polished mahogany, still on his feet and still firing the whole way down, bullets splintering the wood and walls all around him.  
  
As he reached the end of the banister, he tossed the weapons away, twisted in the air, and landed in a four-point crouch before leaping upright again and scampering out what had been a closed front door before Tornado hit it. He paused to regard the hole that had once contained a rather nice-looking doorframe and a lovely pair of double doors but now framed only sad little splinters of disintegrated wood and one overturned BMW that had been unfortunate enough to be in Tornado's path at the wrong moment. He leapt aside as a bullet ricocheted by his foot, blew the guards a sarcastic kiss, and darted out.  
  
Outside, Tornado still galloped, running like he would never run out of energy until, quite frankly, he did exactly that. The Rage left him between one step and the next, and his leading leg buckled heavily under him. His free hand barely caught him before he would have fallen on and crushed Cindy, but she slid down to sit hard on the spongy turf. His many wounds, which had not bled much at all during the Rage, now bled freely as the primitive fire faded and his eyes returned to their usual benevolent brown. He panted heavily, his breath forming puffs of white in the cool night air.  
  
"Always... hard," he managed to gasp, "coming out... of it."  
  
"You did good, Tornado," Cindy encouraged him, "everyone got out okay."  
  
He nodded heavily. "And it's... it's done. The machine won't fire. I made sure. I... made sure. I... I... don't feel so good." His hand slid out from under him and he crashed heavily to the ground.  
  
"Tornado...?" he heard Cindy say, "Don't you worry, we're going to get you out here. You did good, Torny... you did good... good... good..."

Inside the mansion, Siobhan slid over to Charming and looked at the object he had managed to hang on to in all the confusion, even when the girl had kicked him.  
  
It was a glass slipper. Yes... this could be useful later...  
  
End Part 10. 


	11. Glimpses and Reflections

Author's note: Sorry this update has taken so long, but my idea fairies got lazy. Not to worry though – they're more alert now and beating me with ideas :-)  
  
Enjoy!

-----

NEWSFLASH: A night of dreams turned into a nightmare for Andrew Charming, CEO of Charming Industries, when three assailants broke into his mansion last night during what most have referred to as the party of the century. Fifty guests were injured when a Raging Minotaur stampeded through the ballroom, causing tens of thousands of dollars in damage and kidnapping one of the guests – a mysterious young woman known only as Cinderella. Attempts by security to subdue the rampaging Beast were thwarted by two other individuals, described by surviving guards as a talking Cat and a rogue Fairy. A Fairy fitting the same description was seen earlier assaulting actor Russell Crowe, pushing him to the ground without any apparent provocation.  
  
"She was an enchanting woman, though I never learned her real name," Charming told reporters regarding Cinderella, "It pains me to know that she's at the mercy of a monster like that Minotaur, and I will cooperate with police in every way I can in order to find her again. My only concern right now is her safety."  
  
Police have declined to comment on the investigation, other than to say that a significant clue was left behind during the course of the kidnapping...

-----

"I can't believe you left that slipper behind!" G was pacing, and Cindy noticed that in the older woman's agitation her feet didn't always touch the ground when they should, as though she didn't have time to obey the law of gravity. For its part, gravity didn't press the matter.  
  
"Well, I'm sorry," Cindy retorted, "but things were getting a bit hectic by then."  
  
"It ought to have been relatively simple," G said, advancing on Cindy, "Get in, distract Charming, disable the device, and get out."  
  
"And it would have been simple, if you'd told us everything we needed to know!"  
  
"I did tell you everything you needed to know."  
  
"Oh, and you didn't think telling us that Charming was in league with the Unseelie wasn't important?! That's a big load of dragon crap."  
  
G looked sharply at Cindy. "You mind your tone with me, Cindy. If I'd known about that little wrinkle I certainly would have prepared you for it. Unseelie of the past may have consorted freely with the Seelie, but modern Unseelie have learned to hide their comings and goings from the good- aligned Fey. They learned subterfuge from humans, and directed it to their own ends."  
  
"And what are those ends, exactly?" Cindy asked.  
  
G shook her head. "From what you tell me, this bunch was angling for the destruction of humans – but it's beyond what any Unseelie has tried before. Traditionally, Dark Fairies despise humans, but only the most vicious ones will kill individual mortals. Most of them are just mischievous and unhelpful – curdling milk, making weeds grow in your flowers, breeding aphids, that sort of thing."  
  
"Unhelpful?!" Cindy demanded, "I'd say the destruction of all humanity sounds pretty damned unhelpful to me!"  
  
G took a deep breath, walked over to one of the recliners, and sat down. "Suffice it to say," she said, "that this is going to be a difficult matter to resolve. Not only do we have to discover who is behind this plot, but we have to keep Charming and whoever has him in thrall from finding you in the process." G looked over at Cindy, "They have the shoe, and it won't be long before they trace the Faerietech. Once that happens, it will be only a matter of time before they find you."  
  
Cindy held up her hand, showing the bracelet of crystals still on her wrist. "I think they'll have a hard time capturing me."  
  
"Don't get cocky," G warned, "I have more experience in the dealings of the Fairies than you do. Glitter can tell you that even the Seelie can be ruthless."  
  
"Well, thanks for the advice, anyway," Cindy conceded as graciously as she felt the situation deserved, "But in the meantime – assuming I didn't do anything else catastrophic that you want to yell at me for – I'm going to go check on Tornado, if that's quite all right with you."  
  
She turned and left.  
  
"That girl certainly has a problem with authority," G said to Mac, who had been fastidiously combing the fur on one outstretched leg with his tongue like some cleanliness-obsessed contortionist during the entire conversation.  
  
"I hadn't really noticed, myself," he replied casually, "Among my people she'd be perfectly normal." He resumed his toilet, cleaning the claws of a hind foot. "In any case, we got the job done – I think that deserves more kibble and less scolding. Just my opinion."  
  
"What you don't seem to appreciate," said G, "is that the loss of that shoe presents us with a whole other set of problems – and many more risks than the original mission held."  
  
"So?" Mac scratched vigorously behind an ear with the newly-cleaned foot. "Steal it back." His atmospheric contribution concluded, the Cat curled up in front of the hearth and went to sleep, purring in a very self-satisfied manner..  
  
G reflected that one quality that the talking animals shared with their less verbose relatives was a natural tendency to regard a situation in the simplest terms: I'm hungry, so I go find food. I'm cold, so I go find shelter. Someone steals my stuff, so I go steal it back. Pursuit of legal avenues in criminal matters was a concept only recently learned by the urban Beasts, and many of them still tended to prefer their own methods of meting out justice – apparently, there was a certain therapeutic value to dashing in an offender's brains with hooves or tearing him open with claws rather than seeing the state offer him free room and board in prison. Most human offenders actually seemed to prefer jail time to probation nowadays.  
  
However, simplicity did not mean lack of cunning – not by a long shot.  
  
She stood up and walked quietly out of the room. There was someone she had to talk to, immediately.

-----

Cindy stood in the doorway of the room that G had set up to accommodate the wounded Tornado. Getting Tornado off the mansion grounds was no easy task, especially after midnight when Charming discovered the sabotage and sent guard Worgs (which, on a good day, made a crossbreed of a grizzly bear and a wolverine look downright cuddly) to scour the grounds – and, incidentally, when the enchantment on their limo expired, returning it to a tiny die-cast toy car. Regardless of how well-appointed Glitter's subsequent work was, driving home with Tornado in the back of an enchanted Bartlett pear roadster (which still had a decidedly stem-like hood ornament rendered in chrome and whose interior reeked of pear brandy) was not Cindy's idea of automotive luxury.  
  
It could have been worse, Cindy reflected... it might have been something really dumb, like a pumpkin.  
  
Tornado, meanwhile, had been unconscious for about ten hours now, showing no signs of coming out of it. His wounds had been treated and bandaged by the ever-helpful dollservants, and he now lay in a bed big enough to comfortably accommodate a human family of five, resembling Jack's now infamous giganticide victim after the beanstalk had been chopped down (the case that had passed the first sizeism antidiscrimination laws in recorded history). His tail hung out limply from under the sheets like a frayed length of very tired rope.  
  
Even the shot-off horn tip had been replaced with a prosthetic graft (of what, Cindy could only guess) which was still lashed in place with mithril wire to facilitate healing.  
  
She waved off a dollservant's offered glass of milk, and then pulled a chair over beside the bed so that she could sit backwards in it, resting her chin on her forearms on the back of the chair while she studied the Minotaur, looking for any sign of recovery. She didn't expect to find any immediately – G had told her that 'taur Rages tended to delve so deeply into physical and mental resources that the aftermath could be crippling.  
  
What really annoyed her was that she didn't get a chance in the lucid moments between Rage and coma to thank him for getting her out of that tight spot at the ball. He didn't have to come get her – hell, he hardly owed the human race anything considering recent events – but he risked his life all the same. She knew she wasn't going to hear the reason – if one was forthcoming – for some time.  
  
Of course, she had learned a thing or two about the rewards of patience.  
  
She considered the first preliminary twitch of the brush-end of his tail to be a good start.

-----

G pulled back the sheet covering the full-length mirror. It was not a glass mirror, of course – who ever heard of glass holding a proper enchantment, after all – but rather crafted of polished silver, enough silver in one place to make the Lycanthropy Anti-Defamation League (one of a handful of overlapping organizations between the ACLU and the ASPCA) howl in outrage. The frame was etched with runes and sigils which glowed in a spectrum visible to fairies and some of the more perceptive human wizards. Considering all this, the casual observer might be only slightly surprised to note that the face the mirror reflected back was not G's own.  
  
Magic mirrors of all sorts had been created during the Mithril Age, ever since their secrets had been rediscovered by the individuals with the proper skills. Their manufacture was no longer quite so miraculous, though the product itself was still prohibitively expensive. Currently there existed three basic types in the modern world.  
  
The first type had a djinni or similar helpful spirit bound to them. Most of them went into the mansions of vain women whose beauty was fading, only to be summarily returned when the mirror told the truth about their owner's actual place in the ranks of the fair. Some of them were used by enterprising investors as stock oracles, though their reliability was still in question. Occasionally they were used by the lonely or the reclusive just to have someone to talk to without actually having to invite people over, but djinn tended not to be scintillating conversationalists, unless you were interested in ancient civilizations or extraplanar affairs.  
  
Then there were those mirrors which did not have a djinni. These were not mass-produced for one very good reason – every container must have something to put in it, sooner or later. Those who had the right mirror and knew the incantations and could cast them without their brains dribbling out their ears could imprison someone inside. Generally this was only done for a very good reason, but human nature being what it was...  
  
Needless to say, empty mirrors were only created individually, for a specific purpose; if you wanted to commission a wizard to make one for you, he generally required full payment up front in cash – usually in the tens of thousands of dollars – and your signature on a waiver that released him from any responsibility for what is done with the finished mirror, especially if the buyer gets trapped inside, by accident or mishap.  
  
No wizard would have agreed to create this mirror for any commission, however; it was simply too powerful. This was one of the third kind of mirror, the sort created for personal use only or not at all. Only the most powerful magic-users knew the secret to these, and they guarded it like a dragon guards its hoard. Even then, only one human wizard in recent history has been known to successfully create one without going mad or being eaten by something unspeakable from the other side of the mirror.  
  
"Ill met by energy-saving incandescent light, my sister," said the being in the mirror. She was one of the more beautiful of the High Fey, with smooth white skin, shining silver eyes, and silky black hair. Her clothing looked as though it had been woven of the night sky, glittering with stars and mingling freely with the shadows that surrounded her and filled the mirror's elegant frame without giving any indication that they were affected in the least by the well-lit room beyond.  
  
"Ill met, Mab," G replied, coldly formal, "You've been expecting this conversation, I see."  
  
"It was only a matter of time, you know. To be honest I'm surprised it took you this long to consult me on the matter, considering my personal expertise on the topic."  
  
"This has gone entirely too far, even for your kind. Call it off."  
  
Mab smiled. "My kind? Goodness, aren't we feeling a bit picky today? Fairies are Fairies, light or dark doesn't matter all that much, you know that as well as me."  
  
"I still want you to call it off regardless."  
  
"Tell me, sister – what is it that I have set in motion that you want me to stop?"  
  
"The Charming affair."  
  
"And... what proof do you have that the Charming affair is mine? Ah yes... the look in your eyes tells me you have nothing of the sort. You know me well enough to recall that I never directly lied to you, not once. Twisted the truth, yes. Spoken in riddles, yes. Lied, no. I highly recommend that if you want any help from me you had better adjust your attitude." She tilted her head, glancing past G towards the doorway. "I also recommend a bit less obfuscation on your part, sister – otherwise your help may be rather less helpful than you would like."  
  
G turned and cursed herself for not taking the time to secure the door. She had no way of knowing how much of the conversation Glitter had overheard – the best plan now was damage control.  
  
"Sister?!" Glitter demanded, her face twisting with outrage, as G belatedly threw the cover back over the mirror. "Who the hell are you with, anyway?"  
  
"Glitter, let me explain before you jump to conclu—"  
  
Fireworks erupted in G's face as Glitter fired a magical volley. G's counterattack, though not nearly as flashy, was swift, sending up an invisible wall of force that pinned Glitter to the wall like a specimen collected by a farsighted entomologist. Golden fire blazed in G's eyes, revealing for the first time the amount of power she had at her fingertips.  
  
"Don't you dare attack me," G thundered, "If it happens a second time I shan't hesitate to terminate your employment." She drew back her hand, and Glitter fell to the floor.  
  
In the world of humans, Glitter might be considered impulsive, flighty, and short-tempered. In the world of fairies, she was considered combative and stubborn. Both worlds, however, would have easily understood her decision to back off from this particular battle. She stood, brushing her clothes off and keeping her eye firmly on G.  
  
"Just make sure you realize that I don't work with Unseelie," she informed G darkly, "So whatever you and your dear sister are planning, you can sure as hell count me out."  
  
"Glitter—"  
  
Glitter vanished in an explosion of green sparks.  
  
G sighed. The younger fairies never remembered... and the older fairies could never forget.

-----

"What do you mean you can't find her?" Charming demanded of Siobhan, who didn't look the least bit distressed by his annoyance. He couldn't recall a time when she'd ever been distressed over anything. This had unsettled him at one time, but now it just irritated him more.  
  
"We've been looking since the police left," Siobhan replied smoothly, "Certainly you can't expect even us to canvass the entire city in eight hours. There are places we cannot go without human agents. But don't worry – she will be found."  
  
"Then stop making excuses and find her."  
  
"And you are to mind your place here. You still seem to think that you can simply make wishes and we only exist to fulfill them. We are not your servants – quite the contrary. As your father once said, even miracles have a price tag."  
  
Charming grimaced at the casual mention of his father, rubbing the bloodstone ring – the cursed, godforsaken ring that no amount of effort had been able to budge from his finger for seven years. "Leave him out of this. He deserves to rest in peace."  
  
"He was the one who started it, remember?" Siobhan reminded Charming with the calculated skill of an Inquisitor. "Ten years ago – barely an eyeblink for us, though it must be almost a lifetime for the likes of you. Wine?"  
  
Charming glanced up at the abrupt shift in topic, regarded the crystalline decanter of port she now held – and which had not been there a second ago – and waved it away apathetically. The decanter vanished. Even wine had lost its luxury in recent years. "She tricked him, I know she did. He didn't find out she was a fairy until it was too late, and then..."  
  
"We see it differently."  
  
"Of course you would. He told me about it. He said it was just a stupid affair, and he reconciled with Mom when it was over."  
  
"It was over for him, perhaps. Morgana didn't see it that way. We are emotional creatures, Andrew – and Morgana loved your father, more strongly than I think humans are capable of understanding the emotion."  
  
"She was a psycho bunny-boiler! It was like watching a cross between 'Fatal Attraction' and 'Lord of the Rings' happening around me!"  
  
"Yes, we regret the untimely loss of your mother in all that—"  
  
"Like hell you do."  
  
"All right, we don't," Siobhan conceded blithely, "But your father owed Morgana for breaking her heart. And now you must pay his debt."  
  
"I took on Dad's business and made sure it didn't get nibbled to death by creditors. I accepted having a bunch of elves on my staff. I accepted having you as my secretary. I had your damned machine built – and now that I know what it was for it's a miracle it was sabotaged. Damn it, what did you ever do for me?"  
  
"Everyone... loves you." She spoke like she was explaining a difficult concept to a very young child. "You're on every other cover of People and GQ magazine. You're Entertainment Weekly's Most Eligible Bachelor for – what was it, oh yes – five years running. Do you really think that was entirely due to your good looks and, ah, charm?"  
  
"Not everyone loves me."  
  
"Ah." Siobhan smiled, knowing the precise individual to whom Charming referred. "Well, it's just too bad, then, that she's the key to fulfilling your family debt, isn't it?"  
  
Charming looked over at Siobhan, and said nothing; he knew the terms of the contract.

-----

End of Part 11.


	12. Investigations

Author's Note: Well, I haven't exactly fallen off the edge of the world – but for a time my plotbunnies ran off and I had to go find them again. Sorry about the huge delay, but I hope this update is worth it. Enjoy!

---  
  
It wouldn't be fair to say that Officer Callista was the last person G expected to be knocking at the door to the building currently masquerading as an office of the Three Fate Law Firm. For one thing, Callista was a skilled cop and exactly the sort to investigate a lead in a crime to which she may have been a partial witness, especially if her newest parolee was witnessed at the scene. For another, there were lots of other people whose arrival would be far less likely, including Santa Claus, Elvis, and Sean Connery (though G never quite lost hope in that last possibility).  
  
Not surprisingly, Callista looked exactly like she'd been the victim of a low-grade sleep enchantment fourteen hours earlier, which was only fair. She'd made a valiant and commendable effort to hide the lingering aftereffects with a flawless French braid and an overall edge to her demeanor, though she still had dark circles under her eyes. Regardless of what the tale-spinners would have their delighted audiences believe, Sleeping Beauty could not simply shake off a much stronger enchantment designed to last a hundred years just because some guy with a pedigree had given her CPR.  
  
"I'm looking for Tornado Alley," Callista said, flashing her badge at G, "I understand he's been working at this address since his parole?"  
  
"Yes, he has," G replied, "But I haven't seen him yet today. What's this about?"  
  
"Obviously you haven't been following the news," Callista prompted, and when there was no apparent flash of recognition added, "The Cinderella kidnapping?"  
  
"Oh! That. Well, I can't believe Tornado would be involved with that."  
  
"He was at the scene," Callista said. G noted, not without a bit of satisfaction, that Callista's patience was wearing prematurely thin. "And two hundred people saw him charge through the ballroom like... well, like a bull in a china shop, and in full Rage at that."  
  
"I'm aware that he went to the ball as an escort to one of my co-workers, but he's been very gentle towards everyone since he started working here. I think your witnesses are mistaken. I know all about anti-Minotaur prejudice in this day and age – people mistaking one Minotaur who didn't do anything wrong for another who did, because, hey, all taurs look the same, right, and everyone knows they're all brutes and monsters, right?"  
  
"Ma'am," Callista sighed, wavering between wanting to calm her interviewee and wanting to shake her, "I have to investigate every lead, just for the sake of thoroughness. And, to be honest, I had a bit of a rough time of it last night so I'm sure you'll understand why I want to get to the bottom of this."  
  
"Two of my best employees are missing!" G snapped in return, "How do you think I feel?" And with that she slammed the door in what she hoped was not too theatric a fashion.  
  
Callista took a deep, calming breath, telling herself that screaming at a potential witness was not an effective way to conduct a police interview, and stepped back from the door. She studied the building, not really hoping for a clue but deciding that it would be nice nonetheless if she happened to see one. She caught a trace of movement in one of the upper windows, but by the time she focused on it, it had stopped. She narrowed her eyes and returned to her car; though brief, her little chat had left her with the distinct feeling that there was much more to this than she was being told. She didn't much care for secrets.

-----  
  
Cindy watched through a narrow gap in the curtain as the car drive off. She hadn't heard the conversation, but she thought she remembered seeing that woman at the ball – out of uniform at the time, of course, but still recognizable as one of Shea City's Finest. No matter how well you disguise yourself, you can never quite hide a seasoned cop walk. With any luck, G had thrown her off the scent.  
  
She turned, hearing Tornado groaning. He'd awakened not long before, but the aftereffects of the Rage were still plain. Just now he was trying his hand at sitting up – a feat that Cindy didn't think should be quite within his grasp just yet. Mac, meanwhile, was languidly combing his whiskers with his claws and trying, with limited success, to look like he wasn't the least bit concerned about the largest member of the team.  
  
"Take it easy, Torny," Cindy said, "You still don't look so good."  
  
"I'll be fine," he rumbled, adding with a wince, "Assuming a certain definition of 'fine'."  
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
"Like someone hit me with a small planet. It'll pass. It always does." He glanced anxiously over at her. "Were you... hurt at all? When it happened?"  
  
"I'm okay, Tornado, just a few bumps and bruises. I probably would have been a lot worse if you hadn't come along." She scratched him between the horns. "Thanks."  
  
The sound Tornado made in response was not really so much a growl as a basso profundo purr, a noise that reminded Cindy of the groaning sound a really big dog makes when you scratch him in a really good spot.  
  
"I hate to interrupt," said Glitter from the doorway, startling both woman and Minotaur, "since this is obviously a private moment between you two. By the way, you're looking better than last night, Tornado."  
  
"What is it?" Cindy asked shortly; she'd never quite gotten used to the way Glitter could simply materialize at unexpected moments in unexpected places.  
  
"We may have a slight conflict of interest going on here," Glitter replied, "We may have to cut our losses and scoot soon."  
  
"What kind of conflict?"  
  
"Our benevolent employer may be playing both sides of this whole fiasco. I just saw her talking with one of the Dark Fairies – Unseelie, in case you can't make the connection yourself."  
  
"That can't be right," Tornado frowned, "G's been all kinds of nice to us since she hired us."  
  
"Yeah – sucks, doesn't it?"  
  
"Well, what was she saying while she was talking?" Cindy asked.  
  
Glitter paused, a rare sight for anyone who had been in her company for any length of time. "Well... I did hear her telling the she-bitch to call something off. And then the Unseelie said something about all fairies being basically the same – which is a big steaming pile of crap in my opinion – and called G 'sister'."  
  
"I really hope you didn't do anything stupid, Glitter."  
  
"Hey, you know me."  
  
"I think that's what she means," Tornado interjected, "Did you, in fact, act on this fragment you overheard?"  
  
Glitter muttered something unintelligible.  
  
"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."  
  
"I said, I might have," Glitter said defiantly, "I had a good reason to, dammit. Just put yourself in my boots – when you overhear a conversation between your employer and one of your mortal enemies, don't you tend to get a bit tetchy? What are you looking at, anyw..." Glitter turned, following the collective gaze of Cindy and Tornado.  
  
Apparently, the more powerful the fairy, the stealthier – since G had entered the room so silently that not even Glitter's sharp fairy ears had heard her and now stood about two feet behind her.  
  
"So... what? Is it smiting time already?" Glitter asked G.  
  
"I don't think smiting will be necessary at this point," G said coolly, "for two reasons. First, the mission is not over yet, and your services are still needed – all of you, Glitter. And second," she added as Glitter opened her mouth, "I believe an explanation is in order."  
  
"Damn str—"  
  
"Glitter," Cindy said, "Shut up for a second, will you?"  
  
"Oh, I assure you I'm interested in hearing this too." And she watched G intently, looking as though she fully expected to disbelieve whatever came next.  
  
"The relationship between the fairy kingdoms is... complex," G said, "By and large, the Seelie are not at war with the Unseelie, but we recognize the differences in our respective approaches to the mortal world. For the most part, mortals would describe our understanding as agreeing to disagree. However, there are still Laws that fairies are bound to obey when dealing with mortals. When I heard your report, I knew that one of the Unseelie Queens had overstepped her boundaries. Attempting to destroy the human race is quite against the Laws, for in some ways fairies need mortals, need their belief in us, in order to survive."  
  
"Hold on," Cindy interrupted, "I know that fairies are one of the oldest races in existence – but they haven't been in the mortal realm until fifteen years ago. If you need our belief to survive..."  
  
"That is a valid question, Cindy," G said, "and one which will be answered at a less pressing time. But for now, suffice it to say that it would not be in the best interests of the Unseelie if mortals completely disappeared. The fairy that Glitter saw me talking to was Queen Mab, whom one might call my contact within the Unseelie. She said she knew about the Charming affair, and that one of the other Unseelie Queens was behind it."  
  
"So who is it then?" Tornado asked, "If we know who it is, then..."  
  
G shook her head. "Mab didn't give me a name. She said that would be 'cheating', and we'd have to find that out for ourselves."  
  
"So, how can you be so sure that she's not just jerking us around?" Glitter asked, "Insider contact or not, I wouldn't trust her any further than I could throw a hippopotamus while wearing iron bracelets."  
  
G inclined her head, conceding the point. "She told me where she believes the slipper is being held, and as soon as my imps return..."  
  
"Well, if you want to do it the hard way." These were the first words anyone had heart from Mac in well over an hour; in fact he had been so silent for so long that everyone had nearly forgotten he was still there.  
  
"What do you suggest, then?" G replied.  
  
"Where does she say the shoe is?" Mac asked, leaning forward on his haunches.  
  
"She says it's being held somewhere in the Charming corporate building – but the Charming building is 37 stories tall, not counting R & D labs in the sub-basements. Only a supernatural creature like an imp could search a place like that without being detected."  
  
Mac grinned, the sort of grin one ordinarily would find down a rabbit hole. "Now that, my dear G, is where you're wrong."  
  
"What are you planning?"  
  
"Give me a wireless laptop and a network hotspot and I'll show you what I'm planning." He laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.  
  
"Oh no," Cindy groaned, "You're not planning to hack Charming Industries, are you?"  
  
"I'm just going to let my paws do the searching. Anyway, I don't hear any other brilliant suggestions from the rest of you."  
  
The closest G could get to giving him leave without choking on the idea was, "Just... be careful."

---  
  
End of Part 12.


End file.
